Splintered gates, p.1
Splintered Gates, page 1
SPLINTERED GATES
SHAMROCK DISPOSAL: BOOK 2
D.K. HOLMBERG
Copyright © 2026 by ASH Publishing
Cover art by Damonza.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author’s Note
Series by D.K. Holmberg
CHAPTER 1
“Magic leaves traces. Ripples in the pond of reality that those who know what to look for can spot from miles away.”—From “Practical Detection,” a morph survival guide (banned by the Shamrock Disposal Agency)
Perfect autumn days in this city were rare enough to be suspicious. The kind of suspicious that had my father checking ward lines and muttering about the weather being too convenient. But today, with the sun warming my face and the wind at my back as Marcus and I cruised along the boardwalk on our bikes, I was determined to enjoy it without paranoia.
The boardwalk stretched before us, weathered wooden planks warmed by the October sun. Joggers in expensive athleisure weaved around tourists taking photos of the harbor. Street vendors hawked roasted nuts and overpriced coffee in paper cups adorned with autumn leaves. It was almost aggressively normal—the kind of scene that appears on tourism websites, carefully curated to hide the city’s more unusual elements.
Like the fact that a sprite colony had taken up residence under the north pier last spring, or that the mist that sometimes rolled in at dawn wasn’t entirely natural. Or that several of the so-called retired fishermen who played chess near the lighthouse were actually Agency sentinels, monitoring the harbor for underwater incursions from the Unseelie Court.
But today, I was off duty. No magical emergencies, no Agency paperwork, no morph-related paranoia. Just me, my oldest friend, and the simple pleasure of pedaling along the water’s edge on a perfect fall day.
“When’s the last time we did this?” Marcus called over his shoulder, weaving between a pair of joggers with the easy confidence of someone who biked these paths three times a week.
“Too long,” I replied, following his path. Unlike Marcus, who stayed in shape through actual exercise, my physical fitness came mostly from running away from magical threats and the occasional training session with Alison. “Before the whole Unseelie Court incident. Before Lysienne sacrificed herself to seal the fractures Lord Kaelus had torn in reality. Before I'd absorbed Court magic I still didn't fully understand.”
“Right. Before you became a magical government consultant and started hanging out with Agent Hot-and-Dangerous.” Marcus slowed slightly to let me catch up, grinning with the particular smugness reserved for friends who think they know you better than you know yourself.
I rolled my eyes. “Her name is Alison, and we work together. That’s it.” Well, more than that—Alison was one of the few people who knew what I really was, and our partnership had evolved into something resembling actual friendship. But Marcus didn’t need the details.
“Uh-huh.” Marcus’s grin widened as he pedaled alongside me. “That’s why you get that stupid look whenever her name comes up.”
“I do not—” I started, then stopped abruptly. Something wasn’t right.
My senses tingled like static electricity dancing across my skin. The familiar sensation of magical energy being manipulated nearby—not the subtle background hum of ambient magic that was always present in the city, but something active and intentional. It felt like pressure changes before a storm, that heaviness in the air that makes birds go quiet.
Marcus circled back, immediately recognizing my expression. Years of friendship had taught him to read my something magical is happening face. “What is it?”
“Magic,” I said quietly, scanning the boardwalk ahead. “Active casting. Maybe fifty yards ahead, near the ice cream stand.”
He followed my gaze toward a cluster of people gathered near a blue-and-white striped kiosk. “Dangerous?”
“Not sure yet.” I reached out with my senses, trying to gauge the nature of the magic. Not elemental; there was no fire or water manipulation. No binding energy either, which was a relief. But definitely something affecting emotions, pushing against natural mental barriers. “Feels like emotional manipulation. Low-level, but deliberate.”
I dismounted my bike and started walking it casually forward, staying alert. Marcus fell in beside me, his earlier playfulness replaced with watchful caution. He might not have magic, but years of being my friend had taught him when to be careful. He’d witnessed enough magical disasters to develop a healthy wariness without slipping into my father’s level of paranoia.
“Talk to me,” he murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear. “What are we walking into?”
“Someone’s pushing energy. Not offensive casting, more like... intimidation.” I kept my posture relaxed, just another weekend cyclist stopping for ice cream. “It’s localized. Whoever’s doing it isn’t trying to affect the whole area.”
As we drew closer, the situation came into focus. A middle-aged man in a button-down shirt and khakis stood with two younger children—a girl about twelve with a skateboard clutched to her chest, and a boy perhaps ten hiding partially behind his father. Facing them were three teenagers, all trying and failing to look tough while simultaneously looking increasingly nervous.
The father wasn’t obviously casting—no dramatic hand gestures or glowing symbols—but I could see the subtle shimmer of energy radiating from him. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but to my senses, it was like watching heat waves rise from hot asphalt.
“What do you think happened?” Marcus asked under his breath, playing with the strap of his helmet.
I observed for another moment, taking in the body language, the positioning, the residual magical signatures. “Those teens probably harassed the kids. Dad stepped in. But Dad’s a practitioner, and he’s letting them know it.”
The magic wasn’t harmful—not exactly. It was a fear enhancement, taking the teenagers’ natural discomfort at being confronted by an angry parent and amplifying it into something more primal. Their faces were pale, eyes slightly too wide. One kept swallowing convulsively; another’s hands trembled. The third—taller than the others, with the swagger of someone used to being in charge—was fighting the effect, but sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool breeze off the water.
“Should we intervene?” Marcus asked, voice neutral. “Or is this just some jerk kids getting what they deserve?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “We should intervene. Using magic like this in public—even subtly—is exactly the kind of thing that attracts Agency attention.”
And as much as part of me enjoyed seeing bullies get a taste of their own fear, this wasn’t the way to handle it. Not with civilians around, not in broad daylight, not when every magical incident raised the general background level of supernatural awareness that the Agency worked so hard to suppress. If the Disposal team caught wind of this, that father would be in for a world of bureaucratic hell and his kids would be caught in the crossfire.
“Wait here,” I told Marcus, leaning my bike against a nearby bench. “And maybe keep your phone ready, just in case.”
“For what? Calling 911 or filming a magical disaster for posterity?” But he was already pulling out his phone, ever practical.
“Be careful,” he added unnecessarily. But that was Marcus—always looking out for me, even when I was the one with the supernatural abilities. He’d been that way since college, when I’d accidentally revealed my nature to him during a particularly memorable dorm party involving a cursed bottle of tequila and a possessed mini-fridge.
I approached casually, hands in pockets, projecting harmless curiosity rather than intervention. As I got closer, I could feel the practitioner’s magic more clearly—minor fear enhancement, nothing lethal, but still a violation of about six different Agency regulations. The pattern was amateur but effective, the magical equivalent of a blunt instrument.
“Everything okay here?” I asked, stopping a few feet away, positioning myself at an angle that partially blocked the view from the main boardwalk.
The practitioner’s eyes snapped to me, narrowing with suspicion. I felt his magic waver as his attention split. He had the beginning of gray at his temples and lines around his eyes that deepened as he frowned at me. His clothes were expensive but casual—the weekend uniform of someone who spent weekdays in an office.
“Just teaching these punks some manners,” he said, voice tight with controlled anger. “They thought it would be funny to push my daughter off
The girl shifted uncomfortably, clutching her board tighter. A scrape on her elbow was beginning to scab over, and her knees were dirty. The younger boy peeked around his father, eyes wide and wary.
One of the teenagers, bolder than the rest despite his pale face, spoke up. “We didn’t push her. She just—”
“Fell when you stuck your foot out? Yeah, I saw the whole thing,” the father cut in, and I felt his magic pulse dangerously. The air around us cooled noticeably and the teen’s voice died in his throat.
I stepped between them, deliberately breaking the magical connection. “I get it. Kids can be jerks.” I glanced at the teenagers, letting a hint of my own power leak into my gaze—not enough to be detected as morph energy, but enough to make them uncomfortable. “And they’re going to apologize and leave. Right now.”
The teens looked between the angry father and me, clearly sensing something unusual but unable to identify what. The bold one opened his mouth to protest, but his friend—scrawnier, with an oversized hoodie and nervous eyes—grabbed his arm.
“Yeah, sorry,” the friend muttered, pulling the others away. “We’re going.”
As they retreated, tripping over each other in their haste to escape the unnatural fear still clinging to them, I turned to the father, speaking quietly but firmly. “You need to dial it back before a disposal team shows up.”
His eyes widened slightly and I felt his magical probing—subtle, but present—as he tried to determine what I was. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Yes, you do,” I interrupted, letting just enough knowledge show in my expression to make him understand I wasn’t a civilian. “Minor fear enhancement is still a public usage violation. There are better ways to handle this.”
The man’s magic pulled inward, like a turtle retreating into its shell. I could feel him struggling with his emotions, the natural protective instinct of a parent warring with the sudden realization that he’d been caught breaking the rules.
“They were hurting my kids,” he said, defiance mixing with worry. His hand moved to his daughter’s shoulder, protective.
“I understand,” I replied, softening my tone. “But if you’d been spotted by an Agency scanner, you’d be spending the weekend filling out paperwork instead of with your family. Trust me: The forms for unauthorized emotional manipulation are a special kind of torture.”
His shoulders slumped slightly as the reality of how close he’d come to trouble sank in. His daughter tugged at his sleeve, looking between us with confusion.
“Dad? Is everything okay?” Her voice was quiet, embarrassed.
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” he assured her, then looked back at me. “Thanks for the... reminder.”
I nodded. “No problem. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
As the family walked away, the father casting one last wary glance over his shoulder, I turned back toward Marcus—and felt the residual magic in the air shift. The father’s spell hadn’t fully dissipated; instead, it was pooling like water seeking the lowest point, gathering in the space where he’d been standing. Emotional magic always lingers longer than other types, especially when powered by genuine feeling rather than technical skill.
Most breakers would disrupt it completely or let it fade naturally. But I’m not most breakers.
I’m a morph.
I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was paying attention, then reached out with my senses and began to absorb the ambient magical energy. It slid into me like cool water, filling the spaces inside that were always hungry for power. The fear tasted bitter on my mental tongue, but magic was magic, and waste not, want not, as Dad always said.
The act of absorption was subtle; to anyone watching, it would look like I was just standing there, maybe checking my phone or enjoying the view. But to someone who knew what to look for...
“You know, if you’re going to morph in public, you might want to be less obvious about it.”
I spun around to find Marcus standing behind me, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. The autumn sun caught the lighter flecks in his brown eyes, highlighting the concern beneath his teasing expression.
“I wasn’t being obvious,” I protested, checking reflexively to make sure no one else was within earshot.
“Your eyes changed color for like two whole seconds.” He tapped the side of his own face. “That weird silver-blue thing they do when you’re absorbing. Pretty sure that’s on the How To Spot a Morph checklist in the Agency handbook.”
I winced. “That noticeable?”
“To me, yeah. But I know what to look for.” He glanced around at the oblivious boardwalk crowd—families eating ice cream, couples taking selfies with the harbor in the background, a busker setting up a guitar case for tips. “Situation handled?”
“Just some dad protecting his kids with a little too much magical intimidation.”
“Understandable, but risky.”
“Exactly.” I rolled my shoulders, feeling the absorbed energy settle within me, finding its place among the other magical remnants I’d collected over the past few days. Nothing substantial—this was just a minor working—but every little bit helped when you never knew what you might face next. There was a time when I’d morph and release it again, but after dealing with the Unseelie attack, I’d taken to holding onto power.
We started walking back toward our bikes, the momentary drama seemingly resolved. The breeze off the water carried the scent of salt and the fried dough from a nearby vendor. For a moment, it felt like we might actually salvage our normal Saturday after all.
That’s when I heard the rumble of a familiar engine approaching.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, shoulders tensing involuntarily.
A green garbage truck with the Shamrock Waste Management logo pulled up alongside the boardwalk, its brakes releasing a weary hiss as it stopped. Nothing unusual about that—the city’s garbage trucks were a common sight, and most citizens never suspected that some of those trucks served a dual purpose.
But I recognized this particular truck—the scratch along the passenger door, the slightly off-center logo—and the timing was too perfect to be coincidence.
“Looks like your other job is calling,” Marcus said with a grimace. “So much for our day off.”
The passenger door opened and Agent Smith climbed out. Tall, military-straight posture, perpetual expression of someone who’d just smelled something unpleasant. His dark Agency uniform was disguised as a sanitation worker’s coveralls, but the way he carried himself screamed law enforcement. Our eyes met, and his face tightened with recognition and irritation.
“Drexler,” he called, walking toward us with clipped strides that reminded me of a drill sergeant. “Thought that was you.”
“Agent Smith,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral despite the sinking feeling in my stomach. Smith and I had a complicated history—he’d been suspicious of me from day one, and the events of the Unseelie incident had only deepened his distrust. He didn’t know what I really was, but he knew something was off. That made him dangerous. ”Just out enjoying the weather. Nothing Disposal-worthy happening here.”
Smith’s eyes scanned the area, briefly lingering on the retreating family before returning to me. “That’s debatable,” he said, his tone implying he’d missed nothing. “But irrelevant. Director Mercer wants you at a scene.”
“Now? It’s Saturday.” As if that would matter to Mercer. The director operated on her own schedule, unbothered by trivial concepts like weekends or personal time.
Smith’s eyebrow twitched, the closest he ever came to showing emotion. “Apparently, magical threats don’t respect your weekend plans. She was quite specific about wanting you there immediately.”
I looked at Marcus, who sighed dramatically but waved me off. “Go save the world or whatever. I’ll take your bike back.”
“Thanks.” I turned back to Smith. “Give me a minute.”
Smith checked his watch pointedly but stepped away to give us some privacy, though not far enough that he couldn’t overhear if he tried. Agency training made eavesdropping second nature.
“Sorry about this,” I told Marcus, genuinely regretful. Days like today—normal, peaceful, free from magical complications—were becoming increasingly rare.
