Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1) Read online

  RIFT

  BETWEEN

  LANDS

  J. Gertori

  BOOK ONE

  THE TRIDA SERIES

  Text and illustration copyright © 2016 by J. Gertori

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  J.Gertori

  www.jgertori.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Rift Between Lands -- 1st ed.

  ISBN-10: 1539967913

  ISBN-13: 978-1539967910

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  1 • The Statue

  2 • The Odd New Place

  3 • The Bazaar

  4 • Fixers & Elixirs

  5 • The Follower

  6 • The Guard

  7 • Bloodlines

  8 • The Hunter

  9 • The Clubhouse

  10 • The Nightlife

  11 • The Slinger

  12 • The Tall Friend

  13 • Summer Spectacle

  14 • The Reporter

  15 • Home & Office

  16 • The Gang

  17 • The Artifec of Enchantments

  18 • The Lone Liaison

  19 • The Grand Mages

  20 • The Scrutors

  21 • Mage Giants

  22 • The Curse

  23 • The Other End

  EXPLORE TRIDA

  Dedication to Someone

  For more books from The Trida Series as well as free ebook short stories (Tridan Tales) of characters in this novel, visit jgertori.com.

  “A few scrapes and scratches make the tale worth telling.”

  ―Ellis Tattersall

  RIFT BETWEEN LANDS

  ONE

  The Statue

  As usual, Sam didn’t have plans for his Friday night, and even if he had the most insistent friends, or any at all, that might’ve still been the fact, sorry to say. That’s just how the recluse liked it, but he’d never reject a meal, on the condition you delivered it to his door. That said, making small talk with his neighbor couldn’t be further from ideal.

  “The cook prepares a spider in the kitchen,” said Sam. His phone screen went red. “The cook cuts a spider in the kitchen?” Red covered the screen again. He squeezed his phone and yelled in desperation, “The cook eats a spider in the kitchen!”

  As the phone processed his translation, three circles bounced on the screen. They faded in a slow loop then hopped over one another; a peaceful bit of code programmed to taunt users, according to Sam. Anyhow, the screen flashed red. He threw his arms into the air as if his half-assed patience warranted the green screen of triumph.

  “Please enlighten me with the answer,” he said, hammering the skip button. “What? This doesn’t make sense. ‘The cook drinks oil in the kitchen?’”

  “To be fair, none of those seem right,” said Jan, Sam’s neighbor. She lowered his phone until their eyes met. “We’re training for a triathlon this month. You should join us. Jim has spare gear. You’d just have to buy a bike.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m a few curse words away from being fluent in Italian,” said Sam.

  “C’mon, last week you blew off the hike to ‘make cooking your bitch.’ Now you’re fixated on learning a new language. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” The crease between his brow sunk his lie. “Don’t act like you don’t hear my fire alarm going off. Take note because that, my friend, is the sound from perfectly seared steak.”

  “Or burned bread—I’m thinking burned bread,” Jan said. “I’m bringing our rent check over. You want me to bring yours? And I mean the full rent.”

  “Whoa, who says I don’t pay the entire amount?”

  She lifted her nose. “Mr. Gaspare. Who else?”

  Sam hesitated for a moment. “Well, Mr. Gaspare hasn’t said anything to me about last month’s rent, or the one before that, or the one before that—”

  Jan leaned deeper into the overpainted doorway. “I’m happy you’re trying new things, but Jim and I thought the scare of losing your job would force you to focus. If not on work, then on a hobby—one hobby—maybe with a group and not alone.”

  “Here we go.” His head dropped.

  “We’re a few steps away. Forget about the triathlon. We’ll go on a lake trip and swim or hike the caves.”

  Sam tossed his phone onto his dining table, where it vanished among a jungle of papers and unopened deliveries. “It does sound fun—spending time with you and your boyfriend, on bikes, or in the water, and sweating. Wet, curly-haired man sweat—”

  “You’re an ass.” She headed for the stairs but stopped on the first step. “Oh, your rent.”

  “I’ll take it myself, thanks.” Sam flashed a scrunched smirk. “Arrivederci, Jan. Ha! That means goodbye.”

  Though he’d never give her the satisfaction, truth rang from Jan’s words, but she was wrong about one thing: Sam did lose his job. He spent the past two weeks applying for openings and fighting the panic of rejection. The latter, like an anomaly, seemed to happen the most.

  On his table were two sealed envelopes. The first held his rent, though not the full amount. The second had a check as well, but also a note:

  Mom,

  Hope this helps. I’ll try and send more soon.

  Love you,

  Sam

  Providing for your family is satisfying, but the moment you can no longer do so, it mutates into a nagging ache. Sam knew this pain, this heart-wrenching strain, far too well. In response, he devised a hobby list to alleviate his responsibilities.

  He watched a documentary of a Filipino-American chef fluent in Italian, which struck him as a comical, at first, but intrigue took hold. I could do that, Sam thought, though he was neither a decent cook nor did he live in Milan; ethnicity may have been their only similarity. He tried to learn French, but the “sexy” language sounded more nasal than he could stomach. But Sam would try anything solo, and bonus points for activities far away from home.

  He pocketed the envelopes and placed a book under his arm. Chomping on a brownie he had nuked before Jan’s visit, Sam settled on the couch with the novel; however, Jan’s words had seeped in, manifesting in the form of restlessness. He focused on the lamp’s glow over his shoulder, the kitchen clock he never fixed, and the note from when he babysat an overweight French Bulldog.

  The book can wait, he thought, tossing it on his coffee table and reaching for the remote. The television hummed the intro to a new show: a man dropped in a random environment, forced to survive a week with nothing but nail clippers. Sam rolled his eyes but didn’t change the channel. He had overheard his former coworker and Jan’s boyfriend, Jim, praise the show.

  Jim’s opinion held weight to Sam. The guy was well-traveled, well-caffeinated, and always had a cheesy grin like Jan stapled the corners of his mouth to his ears. They’d see each other once or twice a week. The most recent time, a few days ago; perhaps why they thought Sam hadn’t lost his job, when in truth, he’d attempted to beg for it back.
r />   A high pitched buzz snapped Sam from the show. He jogged into his kitchen, opened the microwave, and pried the plastic from his food before returning to the couch in time to catch the survivalist salvage a dead animal from under a bush—someone would be eating a despicable meal in no time.

  The hot sauce lid fell to the floor and, with his eyes glued to the screen, Sam poured a huge glob onto his gray steak. Splashes of red adorned his shirt, while the majority leaked over the fat book.

  “Son of a—” He hopped off his couch and darted to the trash with the soaked novel in hand. The lid creaked open and containers from the week’s food deliveries fell. Sam had a bittersweet relationship with Indian, Chinese, and Mediterranean restaurants. He loved the food but couldn’t trust cuisine available at three in the morning.

  “What’s today?” he mumbled. In his household, trash went out during the two-minute scramble upon hearing the truck arrive. He swapped his grimy attire and headed outside with the waste bag slung over his shoulder. The steep stairs motivated him forward, but his shortness of breath came as no surprise. The tapping of Sam’s sneakers on the wet sidewalk echoed through the street. He always chuckled at the nickname “the city that never sleeps,” because his neighborhood fell into a deep slumber by nine, each night.

  Sam tossed the trash near the gutter, beside a pair of bikes belonging to Jan and Jim. This week, they’d invited him rock climbing and cross-borough biking after he declined their offer to try yoga. He did, however, propose a different activity: a city organized race with beer stops along the way. Jan said they’d get back to him on that.

  After a detour to the mailbox, Sam’s attention went to a gnome slumped in the grass along his building. This porcelain sculpture belonged to Mr. Torold Gaspare, his downstairs neighbor and landlord. Each morning, Gaspare showcased a statue on his lawn, only to bring it inside by nightfall. This routine became so reliable that Sam accepted it as the norm; however, this particular statue had lived outside for two consecutive nights. Either Gaspare had triumphed over his obsessive-compulsive actions, or he’d succumb to father time. In any case, Sam decided to retrieve the gnome. The least he could do for the man who never raised the rent.

  As weird quirks go, Gaspare didn’t have a worrisome amount. The landlord always had a woman over, Ms. Sinclair, who was at least two decades younger and had a perpetual smile to go with her bone-chilling laugh. Ms. Sinclair would make it her duty to get Gaspare outside; a feat she accomplished just a handful of times. As far as Sam knew, his landlord’s gnome collection was the quirk.

  He walked over to the garden and lifted the statue from the wilted grass. His body dropped to recalibrate; the damn thing seemed full of cement. He entered the building and grunted with each step. The statue hung low in case his grip gave, but such effort raised suspicion of Gaspare’s strength. Sam caught his breath and knocked on his landlord’s door. He fumbled for his phone, which he had left upstairs during the hot sauce incident of five minutes ago.

  “Mr. Gaspare?” After some failed attempts, Sam pressed his ear against the door. The doorknob rattled and swung open as he released the handle. Wasted hot sauce, an ominous door creak, and a bug-eyed gnome, all screamed B-movie horror flick to Sam. Still, his nerves escalated. He grazed against the wall in search of a light switch. A rather pleasant smell filled the room, reminiscent of fresh linens.

  The lack of scattered glass, displaced furniture, or doorframe remnants, mixed with Sam’s binge watching of crime shows, led him to believe there were no signs of forced entry. Hell, this place seemed cleaner than his and nothing looked awry aside from Jan’s rent check, which she had slipped under the door. The home imitated a gaudy hotel with its glossy white tiles and glass doors that led to each room.

  Sam lifted the gnome, teetering into the living room to plant it on a wooden table that rested on metal legs. Huffing like he’d ran several miles, he placed the rent check beside the gnome.

  Despite entering Gaspare’s home uninvited, Sam struggled to fight the warmth overtaking his scowl. He spurted phrases like luxury living, frou-frou chandelier, and dusty old man. A tour of the three bedroom space took mere minutes as he stomped through the rooms. Such blasphemy for two apartments in the same building to be vast opposites. If Gaspare thought Sam wouldn’t tell the pompous upstairs neighbors—he’d be dead wrong.

  A noise came from the living room, like plates stacked above one another. Sam paused his tirade and looked to the front door. He searched for a weapon and settled on a flimsy candlestick.

  While creeping into the hall, a smash from the same vicinity jolted him off the ground. In an adrenaline-powered stupor, he rushed past the corridor and turned into the kitchen. His fingernails dug into the candlestick as he sunk low, but nobody was there. The sound emerged again, and Sam found the culprit.

  Shards of the gnome’s outer shell flew from the statue as if explosives erupted inside. Sam knelt behind the counter, waiting for the sounds to finish. But once they did, a new sound came.

  “Torold!” a raspy voice said. “Torold, ya brilliant man!” A whistle came from the blind spot near the front door, and a short, shiny-headed man appeared. He lassoed the refrigerator handle with a wispy rope and pulled it open. Sam froze with a dry taste in his mouth like biting into an overcooked chicken.

  The gnome whistled a catchy tune, oblivious to his present company. “Ya outdone yerself, old friend. Got any of that—never mind, found it.” The small man extracted a triangle of cheese and a water bottle.

  Sam’s jaw fell. “What the f—”

  The startled gnome shrieked and launched the water bottle, which crinkled on Sam’s head. His pitiful candlestick swirled into the kitchen sink. In a loud wail, the gnome jumped onto Sam’s thigh and climbed the rest of the way.

  “Wait!” Sam screamed, shielding his face. He squinted with a childlike fear and arched to compensate the gnome’s heft.

  “Where’s Torold?” growled the small man, his free hand clenched and ready to strike.

  “Mr. Gaspare?” said Sam. “I don’t know. Please get off me!” The small man touched the surface of the counter, but his balled fists remained in place. “I saw the statue—you—and brought you inside. Mr. Gaspare does it himself but hasn’t in two days.” The pleas worked, and his shirt came loose from the man’s grip. “I’m losing my damn mind. You’re a talking gnome.”

  A spoon whacked Sam on his chest.

  “I’m not a gnome. Raske, I’m called. Unlike gnomes, we hudgers are real, ya better believe.” Raske’s voice settled to a deep grunt. “Tell me the date.”

  Sam hesitated, more dependent on his phone than he cared to admit. “It’s Friday, the first of July. How do you know Mr. Gaspare?”

  Raske mumbled to himself and counted his sausage-like fingers: four on each hand. He peered at the oven’s clock then opened the Brie cheese. “After ten here, so the gates are closed. They’ll not be happy with me, not at all.” He slathered the brie onto long slivers of beef jerky.

  Sam fashioned a look of disgust, but he couldn’t deny the gurgles of his stomach. He envisioned the hot sauce absorbing into his bland steak, plumping it beyond recognition. “Can I have one of those?”

  Raske looked over his shoulder and pointed at a pre-made piece. Sam scooped it into his mouth and chewed away. The creamy Brie married to the smoky meat, though he didn’t have the most refined palette. “This is a helluva dream,” he said, between bites.

  Raske said, “Ya shouldn’t even be here.” He plopped onto the ground.

  “Wonder if I slipped on the stairs, or worse, the street. You know how dirty the streets of New York City are? Maybe I broke a bone and passed out. Shit, that medical bill is gonna be a bitch!” Sam dislodged meat between his teeth while watching Raske sift through Gaspare’s shelf. “What if nobody finds me? No, what if Jan and Jim find me and volunteer to do, like, physical therapy?” Sam asked Raske to strike him again, but the small man ignored him.

  “Torold, ya old fool. Where’ve ya
gone?” Raske said, uncovering a black key from underneath two books. He moseyed to a paint-chipped chest in the room’s corner and inserted the key before turning it left. The lock on the chest buckled, and a puff of purple smoke escaped.

  “Welp, sure been a pleasure,” said Raske. “Give us a hand and return the cheese to the ice box.” He lifted a lightbulb-shaped bottle from the chest, swirling the gold liquid inside. As it settled, a blurry form of a castle took shape at its bottom.

  “No need”—Sam squinted—“this is a dream.”

  The hudger took a swig of the gold drink then secured the bottle into the chest, locking it once more. The key exited the slot and entered again, this time twisted to the right. Raske re-opened the lid, but to Sam’s amazement, a navy blue handkerchief replaced the bottle.

  “This is a dream, right?” said Sam.

  “Dream or not, that’s perfectly good cheese. Irresponsible fer a fleshlin’ to be wasteful.”

  “Whatchu call me? Hey, asshole, if this isn’t in my head, you better start talking. What happened to Mr. Gaspare, how do I explain all this to the cops, and what the hell kind of gnome doesn’t wear a hat?”

  Raske didn’t budge. “Got no clue who ya been livin’ above, aye? Not my concern. I’ll be far frem here soon. Best ya keep yer ‘gnome tale’ to yerself. Don’t think anyone would believ—”

  Sam lunged at Raske and cupped his shoulders. Red flecks orbited the hudger, who emitted a blood boiling growl in an attempt to peel away. He poked Sam’s eyes, sending him recoiling with his eyelids clenched and watering. Sam blinked to quell the stinging ache. The crazed hudger’s glow shifted from red to a greenish hue. Forcing tears to his ducts, Sam sprung forward, blind.

  A burst of white filled the space, like a flashlight held to his shut eyes. The noises seized. Weightless, Sam glided with Raske nailed to his chest, and a breeze danced behind his neck. In a gust of air, they left behind the scattered porcelain and soon-to-be-rotted cheese.