Short Stories from the Network Series: The Network Series

Introduction

Welcome to Short Stories from the Network Series!

SPOILERS DISCLAIMER!

This canon of short stories has been written specifically for readers of the entire Network Series collection. If you haven’t read all the books yet—WAIT! The spoilers in these stories could ruin the experience, and parts may not make much sense. I suggest you start with Mildred’s Resistance or Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.

To the fans that have read the Network Series and come back for more, welcome back! I’m ecstatic you want to read more.

In this collection, you’ll find short stories following Mildred, Marten, Derek, Angelina, Merrick, Camille, and Hazel. Revisiting these characters and learning more about them through telling their individual stories helped me remember why I love writing.

Now, it’s time to enjoy those stories!

CHAPTER 1

Mildred

Mildred is—and always has been—one of my favorites. Writing the following scene was a delicate process. I always imagined she would need something to give her the strength to make her final decision. Mildred is a fickle witch. She has deep, varied emotions that she rarely betrays. Tapping into that while preserving her personality was one of my favorite challenges when writing Mildred’s Resistance.

Doing so again was a real delight.

Over the years, Marten’s eyes had shifted to a deep umber. She hadn’t noticed—until now. Instead of hints of hazel and flecks of amber, they’d deepened into the satiny finish of a dark walnut tree. That loving, compassionate gaze had guided Mildred through a government overthrow, the loss of a child, and a lifetime of hidden love and lonely nights.

But it couldn’t help her tonight.

Are you ready for the Anniversary Ball, Mildred?

Mildred released a long, coiled breath that had been sitting in her belly like a hot snake. Instead of examining the flicker of torchlight along the perimeter of the forest, she studied herself in the reflection of the window pane. Aged eyes. Wrinkled face. She’d never felt so tired. Or frightened.

What’s on the other side of all this? Where will I go when life just . . . stops? She shook her head, pulling herself from the morose thoughts. Brooding wouldn’t extend the hours of her life—just rob her of the few she had left. Even so, it felt wonderful just to think. To unroll the what if’s and play a sort of game with herself.

What if I had never taken the job as a librarian?

What if Marten hadn’t introduced himself the day we met?

And the strangest question of all: what if I had never fallen in love?

On the cusp of her life, she allowed herself the luxury of uncertainty. Had she made all the right decisions? Should she have chosen a different path? Would she change her decisions if she could?

Marten stepped to her side, staying a respectable distance away while in view of the window. He maintained their careful facade of indifference without thinking; they both did. She caught his gaze in the reflection of the window. His concern felt like a warm caress.

No. She cleared her throat. I am not ready for tonight.

Derek was the right choice for High Priest, even if unpopular.

That’s not what I’m concerned about.

She turned, smoothing out a wrinkle in the front of his dress shirt, and strode away from the window. Marten spun around, but stayed out of reach. His brow furrowed.

It’s Mabel, isn’t it? he asked.

She’ll come tonight.

Yes.

She’d be a fool not to.

Marten frowned. There’s no other way for her to beat you, is there? You’re too powerful.

She tightened her jaw. No. There is no other way. She’ll come.

Do you think she’ll attack or come in peace?

I had hoped she’d deal with me privately, but Mabel likes to make a scene. What more can we do? The Guardians and Protectors have prepared for a possible attack. But we just don’t know. She spread her hands. It’s all we can do, Marten.

He closed the space between them with three long strides, captured her wrist, and pulled her close. The drapes slid across her windows, closing them in. A pang of remorse made her stomach queasy. Marten hated speaking about her bargain with Mabel.

Talk to me, she demanded. Avoiding it isn’t going to change the fact that I shall die tonight, Marten.

He released her, as if he needed more air between them again. The suffocating feeling of saying merry part stole over her, and she didn’t blame him.

I don’t like it, Mildred. We’ve played into her hands.

No. She’s played into mine. I’m not needed in the Network anymore, Marten. Derek is. He’s the witch that the Network needs. Besides, I’m getting old. I’m tired all the time. I’ve served my Network my entire life.

He reached up and ran his fingertips along her face. How shall I live without you?

The same as you did with me. One day at a time.

A rueful smile crossed his lips. So pragmatic.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his warm palm. I don’t know what to expect on the other side, Marten. I don’t know what death will bring. But I will be there, waiting for you, when you come to me.

He drew in a deep breath. She paused, wondering why it drew her attention. Her eyes fluttered open just as he released his breath.

But there is something more, he whispered.

A hesitant edge made his voice breathy, yet sharp. She tilted her head to the side, regarding him with intense scrutiny.

What is that?

His expression had become all lines, like the faceted edge of a crystal. For a moment, she had a hard time recognizing him. And then for a terrible, breathless second, she thought of that night. Filled with pain and fire and blood. The night infinitely more agonizing than the loss of her mother, or her best friend Evie, or her brother Jorden. More painful than any trial by fire she’d survived in life’s cutting game of politics, intrigue, and deep magic.

A long-buried memory raced to the front of her mind with surprising clarity.

I cannot bear to see its face, she heard herself say, gasping from the pains of childbirth. Please, take it, Marten, to someone who can care for it better than I.

As always, Marten had done as she commanded. The angry wail had trailed away, echoing in her mind, taking her heart with it. She shut the memory away, back to the depths where it had survived for all these years. The melancholy and regret swept through her and back out, leaving her on the sturdiness of logic.

Marten said nothing, but he seemed to understand everything.

You want to tell me about the child, she said. There was no question, no fear. Only determined intention. Marten hadn’t admitted it, but she knew that he’d tracked the child all along. It must still be alive. She would have seen his grief otherwise; one of her only comforts in the long, lonely nights.

It’s a blessing that we have this opportunity at all, Mildred. You could easily have died some other way and never known the extent of your own legacy.

My legacy is the Network.

In more ways than you’ll ever know.

By instinct, she slipped her hand into his. As always, his were soft. Full of the same warmth that he bore deep in his soul. Her breath caught at his touch. It always had.

Only you can allow it, Milly.

She cleared her throat. A thousand fears whirled through her mind. Would knowing provide relief? Or fester the grief and resentment she’d borne away into the deepest recesses of her heart? The ignorance and denial had been a sort of balm.

Marten turned, his head tilting back. A locked box rested on the highest shelf. She beckoned for it with a silent spell. It drifted down, motes of dust peeling away, and settled in her hands. She opened the box with a second more powerful, intricate spell. Nestled in the small wooden space lay two small scrolls. One bound with a dollop of black ink, one with periwinkle. Binding agreements with Marten and Stella.

She pulled them out. You’re sure about this, Marten?

Aren’t you?

Mildred studied the scrolls. The paper had become brittle through the years, and it cracked under her fingertips.

I suppose I am.

Our time is short. The dinner has started. Bianca will be here to speak with you soon, as you requested.

Mildred’s incantation burned the scrolls with cool fire and tongues of ice. The flimsy parchment turned to ash and billowed to the rug below in gray plumes. By the time it settled, Mildred’s mind had already moved on with breathless expectation. She wouldn’t go to her grave an ignorant mother after all.

She clutched his hand.

Who? Who is our child, Marten?

He blinked.

I wonder if I even need to tell you, Milly.

He meant that she already knew. But no. She didn’t believe in that sort of ethereal thing, where a witch could sense the truth before she logically knew the facts. Marten knew that. So he must have meant to consider who she would dream of being her child. Someone at once strong, but logical. Powerful, but kind. A mighty witch.

One with power.

Leadership.

The thought struck her all at once, as if it came at her from every direction. It spread like warmth in her head, her heart, and deep in her spine. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Derek.

Marten’s lips lifted. His eyes sparkled. Yes, he cried. Yes! Mildred, he is our son.

The trembling fire that swept through her carried all the solidness from her legs. She sank into a chair. Could it be true? Her voice came out a raspy plea. Are you sure?

Positive.

Absolutely certain?

I’ve watched him grow from a distance until he joined the Guardians. From there, I mentored him as much as I could without drawing attention. Now that you know, can you doubt it? How could he belong to anyone else?

Her mind spun back. It was so easy to see now. Marten’s casual indifference about the recruits that year. His attention to Derek that he tried to hide behind a professional facade. It’s a busy year for recruits, he said. Ambassadors don’t do much. I’m going to help. He studied Derek’s every move, speaking with him like an easy friend.

Mildred’s thoughts whirled. For the first time since the night she gave him up, tears smarted in her eyes. She stared at the wall, blinking them back.

All this time, she said. All this time, I. . . I’ve spent all this time with him. And I never knew.

Or had she known? Was there something to be said for the fluff of mother’s intuition after all? This wasn’t the first time she hadn’t been able to apply the sturdy lines of fact to make sense of her life.

Marten gathered her hands in his.

"What a gift it is, don’t you see? You spent years working with your son. You helped him find his calling in life. Whether you knew it or not, you were Derek’s mother of sorts. Or as influential as one, at any rate."

Mildred swallowed around the heavy lump in her throat.

Yes.

Fate has a funny way of helping us out in the end, don’t you see? Good witches really do prevail, whether we know it or not. His face fell. "At least, in some ways we win."

And in others we die, she finished for him silently.

Marten prattled on with more details, his face suffused with light and pride. She caught a random phrase here and there. Top of his class, of course . . . Hand fasted a lovely witch. I never met her personally . . .

Her mind tripped over itself. Hand fasted a lovely witch. She straightened. Derek had been hand fasted.

Derek had a child of his own.

Marten! That means—

Marten stopped his eager pacing. Yes! Yes, Mildred. Bianca is our granddaughter.

She swallowed, recalling the fateful Esbat when Bianca had stumbled into the room, barefoot, of all things. Her wild hair. Dove gray eyes. The stubborn set of her jaw and sneaky confidence. Oh, yes. It all made sense now. Bianca had a streak of arrogance that perfectly matched her father.

And perhaps her grandmother.

Difficult girl, she muttered, looking away. Her eyes stung. Of course she would be mine.

Marten laughed, gripping her in his arms. The amusement faded from his gaze when he pulled away and pressed her aged, wrinkled palm against his face.

Do you realize what this means? Tears choked his voice. She wiped away a tear as it trickled down his cheek.

Yes, Mildred said. She leaned closer, pressing their foreheads together. It means that we have a beautiful family, Marten. And that we’ve had a lovely life with them after all.

His throat bobbed. Yes, of course. But—

There’s no one else I would rather give my life for.

He closed his eyes. I cannot let Mabel kill you. I don’t think I can let you go, Milly. Not after all these years.

You must. For Bianca. For Derek. For our family.

Marten opened his soulful gaze on her, looking like an uncertain, frightened little boy. Life will be no fun without you here trying to control it, Mildred.

Despite herself, she laughed. A tear trickled free. She couldn’t stop it and didn’t try. Until Marten joined her beyond the veil of this life, she wouldn’t speak with him again after this. The thought would have terrified her, if not for a pair of flashing, defiant gray eyes lingering in her mind.

For Bianca, she thought. I can do it.

For her granddaughter.

CHAPTER 2

Marten

At the beginning of Alkarra Awakening, Mildred has just promised Bianca that she’ll remove the Inheritance curse once and for all. She knows what it could require of her when she makes that promise to Bianca.

My curiosity, however, turned to Marten. How would he deal with such a horrible ending? Would he support Mildred in giving up her life to a witch like Mabel?

The following scene was an exploration of that question.

Air shimmered in the wavering heat of the Western Network. A drop of sweat trickled between Marten’s shoulder blades and down his spine. He just wanted to get this horrible meeting over with.

The wiry, trembling witch that stood in front of him resembled a frightened praying mantis. Globe-like eyes. Thin, twiggy limbs that seemed to go on forever.

My name is Nasir. The servant bowed at the waist. I welcome you to our Network.

I appreciate your generosity in receiving me.

Nasir’s eyes darted over Marten’s face, dropping to encompass his clothes, and then his lips tilted in a wary smile.

The generosity is not mine, but belongs to Her Greatness.

Marten let that go without comment.

Nasir pointed to his feet. You must remove your shoes. Her Greatness requires all visitors to be barefoot.

Of course.

Once Marten finished removing the shoes, Nasir beckoned with a cupped hand. Come. Our leader should not be kept waiting.

They moved through the subdued, earthy elegance of the Arck—the Western Network castle built into a mountainside of red rock—without a word. Torches illuminated the halls with burnished light, casting copper halos on the wall. Only a few servants moved past, their eyes averted and linen uniforms pristine. The hallways opened up to grotto-like rooms every now and then. The rest lay hidden behind closed doors.

Nasir swept to the right down a hallway, his long robe fluttering. He stopped abruptly, gesturing to the left with an outstretched arm. Her Greatness’s throne room.

Nasir advanced into a cavernous room. Two waterfalls plummeted several stories down the striated walls, creating a small creek covered by glass. On the opposite end of the circular room sat an elegant throne sculpted from differing layers of butter yellow and fiery red rock that rippled from the wall. At the center of a throne, a blithe smile on her beautiful face, sat Mabel.

Nasir dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.

Your Greatness. You have a visitor.

Marten waited just behind Nasir, his hands folded in front of him. His arms itched. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled into his shirt collar. The hot, dusty air of the Western Network made his throat tickle—he longed for a deep, cool glass of water. But he’d take no form of refreshment from Mabel.

He came for only one thing. This exchange wouldn’t last long.

Mabel straightened, as if surprised. Marten? What a lovely surprise.

Is it?

Mabel smiled with full, ruby red lips, though the haughtiness in her glacial eyes remained unchanged. Despite the heat, everything about her reminded him of the lakes of black ice boasted by the Southern Network. Cold. Dangerous.

Marten advanced into the room several steps, leaving Nasir on the floor behind him. A lovely home you have here. He cast his eyes around the room, chilling in its austerity. He couldn’t imagine what horrors she enjoyed committing from such a throne.

She waved a hand. It’s a work in progress.

Indeed.

You came on behalf of Mildred, I presume? she drawled. "I can’t imagine you’d venture to the Western Network for any personal reasons. Oh, wait. Mildred is a personal reason for you, isn’t she? Our loyal, well-deserving High Priestess who never breaks tradition."

He ignored her attempt to bait him, but her confidence made him wonder what—or how much—she knew. Soon enough, it wouldn’t matter. He swallowed past his dry throat where the words sat, nearly choking him. He could do this. He had to do this.

I came to speak with you about the Inheritance curse you hold over Bianca Monroe, he said.

Desperate, are you?

Incredibly so, he thought, recalling all the many avenues he’d already explored to break the horrific curse. The relentless tenacity of an Inheritance curse was one of the many reasons they’d been banned from use in the Central Network. Nothing had come of his attempts, which left him here in the Western Network, at Mabel’s throne,