The material a spell phrase is composed of is more important than anything save the spell phrase itself.

Material spells are part art, part science. There have been many attempts to chart the effects of different materials, and yet, while often similar, no two charts wind up being identical.

The most accurate, consistent measurement, is the longevity of the material’s ability to retain a spell phrase, which seems to be directly linked with a material’s ability to withstand oxidation, rot, or weathering, as the case may be.

This is why platinum and gold are often used to create material spells, as their inherent resistance to corrosion create valuable longevity.

Other materials, such as wood, bone and even durable iron, bear a much lower lifespan, although still potentially measured in years.

Tom paused.

Stainless steel? he wrote in his notes before returning to the book.

The ‘art’ of material spell synthesis comes into play when a material’s physical or symbolic properties synergize with the spell phrase itself, creating a more powerful effect than the phrase might have created otherwise.

For example, a lodestone as the material would powerfully reinforce a spell phrase designed to attract or repel objects. However, since lodestone is iron-rich, it will eventually degrade until the spell phrase is lost.

On the battlefield, a spell shield inscribed on fine steel will easily rebuff an heirloom crypt inscribed on gold. While the gold will last longer, the steel will overpower it in the short term, long enough for the steel-wielder to seize victory.

Therefore, a good enchanter will carefully consider the use their spell phrases will be put to.

Blood, byproducts, and body parts also have their place in a soul monger’s toolkit. Because it is rather difficult for most creatures to commit self-harm, using a creature’s blood as the medium for a spell phrase makes the creature resistant to effects that might have otherwise been lethal.

Many soulmongers getting their start practice with their own blood first so unintended mistakes are not lethal. More on this later.

Spider webs are a favorite material for spell phrases which trap or constrain, as the symbolic and practical purpose of spider silk both align with such uses.

While the Soul-pulses burn out the material in a single use, they are extremely potent.

Eagle eyes can fulfill a similar purpose for scrying spells, although scribing accurate spell phrases on cornea is its own challenge.

“Wild,” Tom muttered, writing down a few more notes, plus ideas for things to write spell phrases into. I wonder what a CPU would do with magic carved into it? How would the spell know the object is capable of processing information at unfathomable speeds? Does it draw from some kind of universal understanding?

CPU? he wrote under his notes. Universal meaning based on generally agreed upon human understanding? Subjective?

Maybe if he had a spell capable of sorting or making some kind of if-then statement.

Do those exist?

Tom turned his attention back to the book. After a while, he flipped forward and found the spell phrases.

Spell phrases were the language of the gods, leftover tools from the creation of the world, which literally changed reality when empowered with Soul Pulses.

Am I in a simulation created by some higher being? Tom briefly experienced a spike of existential dread before shrugging it off. If that was true, it had never been a problem before, so why worry about it?

A few of the glyphs actually looked like pictographic representations of their physical effects. For example, the lodestone rune looked something like a magnetic field, while others were more bizarre.

Come to think of it, Tom thought, pulling the two crypts out of his pocket. What the hell do these do?

Tom figured it would be valuable to know exactly what these did and which one was a better choice to sacrifice in order to make his loan repayment card.

Tom carefully transcribed the runes from the edge of each of the crypts, comparing each rune individually to those written in the book, and writing their meaning down, one by one.

Fire lightsilver rust-air liquid forward push push… That’s probably a thermite flamethrower. Neat.

Force/energy danger trigger intercept shield shield shield shield… An automatic shield? Maybe?

The shield sounded more useful than the flamethrower, honestly. While a flamethrower was awesome, it wasn’t something you needed to use very often…at all. And while you didn’t need automatic shields that often either, when you did need them it was to save your life.

Problematically, neither of them were charged.

Maybe switch Suzie’s connection to the shield, while I tear apart the flamethrower to make my soul-pulse repayment debit card? Get a few life-saving soul-pulses in there, then switch over to the debt repayment one.

With a bit of mental effort, Tom reached inside himself and redirected Suzie’s connection to the shield crypt. It felt like moving a hook connected to a rubber band from one peg to another. There was a temporary increase in the stress on Tom’s soul while the connection was severed, then it alleviated a moment later when it landed on the crypt.

Okay. Tom took out the gauge and tapped it on both crypts.

0.0

Alright, they’re empty and ready to work on, Tom thought, putting the gauge back in his breast pocket. He paused when he saw a flicker of movement out of the bottom of his field of view.

Tom awkwardly craned his neck and peered down at the gauge in his breast pocket.

0.4

….The hell?

Tom took the gauge out of his pocket and the needle dropped back to zero.

Was it just the way it was resting in the pocket, the tilt or something?

Tom put the gauge back in his breast pocket, and the needle shifted the tiniest bit.

0.4

Ooookay…

Tom took off his shirt and stuffed the gauge back in the breast pocket.

Nothing.

Tom pressed the gauge against his breastbone.

0.4

Tom lifted it off. The needle dropped back to 0.

He touched it to his chest again.

0.4

PEOPLE CAN STORE SOUL PULSES!?

When he pressed the gauge against his arms and legs, nothing happened. Same with his head and his stomach. Whatever was storing soul pulses, it seemed to be right around his heart.

“The hell are you doing?” Reese demanded, watching Tom play with himself.

Am I storing them or producing them? Is it a leftover from making Mr. Fluffybottom, or is it just me? Does it have anything to do with my dreams? Tom thought, his mind racing furiously at this new discovery.

The possibility that Tom’s internal soul-pulses had an effect on his dreams was easily testable. He just had to move all of the soul pulses in his chest over to his soul engine before bed and see if that changed anything.

I mean, unless I need them to stay alive…. If every living creature has them, it might be what sustains life functions. It is considered life energy, after all. Tom frowned, then glanced up at Reese, who was watching him with a raised brow.

“Can I poke your chest with this?” he asked, holding up the meat-thermometer-looking gauge.

“Normally I would break your spine,” Reese said testily. “But what I’ve seen so far has got me curious.”

“Okay, I’ll just—”

She shrugged off her shirt, and motioned for him to come closer.

“Probably could have done it through the shirt,” Tom said.

Reese shrugged.

This just got weird, Tom thought, putting a knee on the couch and pressing the gauge against the center of her chest.

0.0

“Okay, got what I needed.”

“What’d it say?”

“You don’t have any magic,” Tom said bluntly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Reese said with a snort, reaching for her shirt.

“I GOT GUNS, BITCHES!!” Jacob shouted, kicking the front door open with an assault rifle strap slung over his shoulder, cold steel in his grasp.

He glanced at Tom and shirtless Reese on the couch, froze for an instant, then continued on without missing a beat.

“May I present the finest in self-defense!” he crowed, raising the gun above his head.

“A sighted Colt AR-15 with a full hundred-round aftermarket magazine, with another thousand rounds in the truck.

“This fuckin’ gun is so easy to use; just put the dot on whatever you wanna shoot and squeeze the trigger. The recoil is like a baby coughing on your shoulder, and the sights don’t move at all. The questionably legal bump stock allows you to fire at a rate comparable to a fully automatic weapon.”

“Was that really necessary?” Tom asked.

“Would you rather not have this the next time that asshole comes after us? This thing could have easily put a half a dozen shots into his left nostril from the distance of your basement window to his car. It’s a lot more accurate than a thirty-eight revolver.”

“I guess that’s a fair point,” Tom said.

“Good, because I got three of them.”

“WHAT!?” My college fund! “I’m not trying to start a goddamn terrorist group! We don’t even have three people!”

“Third one is for our gracious host,” Jacob said, handing Reese the gun.

“Cool,” Reese said, accepting the rifle and placing it down beside her on the couch.

“Don’t worry about the cash, buddy,” Jacob said, pulling a notepad out of his pocket, where Tom had regurgitated Ken’s bank account numbers, passwords and email information. “Our friend paid for it.”

***Kenneth Peterson***

Ken glanced at the torn-open block of cocaine hidden beneath the scent-dampening blanket in his floor.

He’d originally stolen it because he needed the analgesic properties, since the wounds in his shoulder and arms had him feeling woozy.

He distinctly remembered slathering the white powder over his wounds, feeling a spike of intense pain, followed by the welcome numbing, then the burst of energy that allowed him to regroup and escape from that demon cat.

He had to take it. It had saved his life.

Now he couldn’t get rid of it. The streets were crawling with his brothers checking every dumpster in the entire city. The only places they didn’t seem to be checking were each other’s houses.

So the only safe place to hide it was in his own house, which presented its own problems.

Ken decided he didn’t need any more coke. He could get by without it. Then he watched his body reach down and rub the acrid drug across his gums anyway, just to help him get through the day.

This could be a problem, Ken thought, even as delight began shivering down each and every nerve.

HONK!

“C’mon, kid,” his new partner shouted from the window of his car. “I ain’t got all day!”

Ken turned to look over his shoulder towards the front door, anger flaring up alongside the pleasure as the old fart heckled him. Ken wasn’t sure what his expression was when he closed the hidden panel and headed for the door.

His face was numb.

Ken checked his belt for his healing doodad and his walking-through-shit doodad, just making sure they were still there.

He’d noticed the healing one had been sizzling with energy when he finally got the box of superpowers back to his home.

Curious, he’d activated it, and his wounds had simply faded away like someone erased them. That was a handy gimmick, so he’d painted a red cross on the gold disk to help him remember which was which, then added it to his belt.

Saved my ass the other day, he thought as he stepped out into the morning sun.

He finally knew how to charge them, too. He’d realized it when Stan had stopped breathing, and the doodad in his pocket had released a sudden surge of invisible power.

People had to die around them. They were literally charged by death, somehow.

Thank God he’d gotten them away from the hands of people who would misuse them. He was the only one strong enough to use them the way they were meant to be used.

He slipped into the older detective’s boxy car, his body humming with energy as his mind made grand plans for how to clean the streets.

It only takes a use or two of the walk-through-walls thingy to clear out a drug den, which would earn me somewhere around eight or more extra uses.

His heroism would practically pay for itself. Of course, I can’t just go in and kill everyone. I can’t do something like that without losing my job. I’ll have to do it in my free time, with a mask or something. Superhero moonlighting.

Maybe it was just the cocaine dissolving against his gums, but Kenneth thought he could feel a smile forming on his face. I’ve got this under control.

He glanced over and spotted Chris giving him an odd look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Chris said, putting the car in gear and backing out. “Let’s check out Jacob Wheeler’s place. He seems like the type to know when to lay low, but we might get lucky.”

They’d been assigned to bring Tom Graves back in and put him under a magnifying glass, as ‘something weird is going on with that kid’.

They don’t even know the half of it, Kenneth thought with a smug, half-felt smirk, settling back into the bucket seat.

Ding!

Ken’s phone went off, vibrating against his leg.

With a grunt, he reached down and pulled out his new phone.

It was a message from his bank telling him he was overdrawn.

His stomach sank. I’m not overdrawn. I’ve got a couple grand in reserve! Ken was about to call them when another text hit his phone.

Ding!

It was a message from his retirement account, stating that he would be forced to pay taxes on the sixty thousand he’d withdrawn.

WHAT!? Ken’s heart seized in his chest as the messages kept rolling in.

Ding!

A message from his credit card company telling him his plastic was overdrawn and would be frozen until further notice.

Ding!

A message from his mortgage lender informing him he’d maxed out his home equity line of credit.

Ding!

A message from Brian that he’d spotted Tom’s grandfather’s SUV.