MAGORIAN AND JONES BOXED SERIES SET By Taylen Carver

Magorian & Jones 5.5

Urban Fantasy Boxed Set

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One wizard. One doctor. A world on the brink of destruction.

Benjamin Magorian, the world’s first modern wizard, and Dr. Michael Jones never set out to save the world. But when ancient gods stir, arcane conspiracies unravel, and old races rise to reclaim their dominion, the unlikely duo is forced into a desperate fight for survival.

From their first uneasy alliance in The Memory of Water to the world-shattering climax in The Divine and Deadly, Magorian and Jones must navigate a war between gods, mortals, and the forgotten races of the world. With magic, myth, and mystery woven into every step of their journey, this six-book contemporary fantasy series is a gripping blend of action, intrigue, and impossible choices.

The complete Magorian & Jones series—now in one spellbinding collection.

The Magorian & Jones series:
1.0: The Memory of Water
2.0: The Triumph of Felix
3.0: The Shield of Agrona
3.5: The Wizard Must Be Stopped
4.0: The Rivers Ran Red
5.0: The Divine and Deadly
5.5: Magorian & Jones Boxed Series Set

Urban Fantasy Novel

This series is also available as a Special Bundle
{Also see: Urban Fantasy, Novels}

USD $19.99 Original price was: USD $19.99.USD $9.99Current price is: USD $9.99.

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Excerpt

EXCERPT FROM MAGORIAN AND JONES BOXED SERIES SET
COPYRIGHT © TAYLEN CARVER 2025
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I absorbed the changing status of the camp subconsciously, for shortly before dawn, Schroeder grew agitated, forcing me to strap him down once more.  He had already acquired the extra strength most of the Errata assumed, so it was trying work. 

Suzuki slipped into the room as I got the last strap adjusted and helped me run through the set of scans and tests we had chiselled into routine by sheer repetition. 

I read the temperature read-out, my heart dropping, and looked at her.  I didn’t say anything, because the four non-emergency patients lying on the campbeds beyond the plastic walls were now awake. 

Her big green eyes shifted to the monitor panel, then to me.  Her expression was grave.  But her shoulders gave a tiny lift that I easily interpreted.   There’s nothing to be done about it.

“Paracetamol,” I said, and reached for the bottle on the trolley.  At the very least, we could reduce his pain.

“He might become a siren,” Suzuki warned.  Those who changed into sirens reacted badly to paracetamol.

“He’s a goblyn,” I assured her. 

“And you know that, how?”

“He reacted to the sunrise.”  I injected a triple dose of paracetamol into his IV.  Most human drugs had little effect on the Errata, even in doses that would knock an oxen off its feet.

Schroeder was still squirming, although his vocal chords were shifting, so he no longer screamed.

“Let’s turn him onto his side,” I said.  “He’s trying to bring his knees up.”

We got the straps undone once more, and helped the semi-comatose man onto his side.  His knees curled up and he hunched in on himself—all except his head, which rolled back, for his neck was stiffening. 

As he moved, the man’s skeletal structure gave out pops and groans.  It was changing, too.   I had often speculated that the extreme fevers the Errata suffered was the disease’s way of “baking” the changes into their DNA and making it express itself fully.  World authorities had come to agree  that substantionally altered gene expression was the mechanism for the shift, which made sense to me. 

Sometimes I itched to have the time to contribute to the research myself.  But I was too damned busy actually caring for the people the researchers merely speculated about.

As we got Schroeder into the position he was naturally trying to bring himself into, he began to convulse.  That was also par for the course.  We held him down, while he jerked and shuddered, then swung into clean-up procedure once more.

Before we had finished, he seized again.

Suzuki stepped back and looked down at her white tunic, which was stained with urine now.  She gave a soft hissed and stalked out of the room to find a fresh tunic.

I kept on with the work of cleaning the man up once more.  There was no one else to do it.

When Suzuki returned, she was wearing faded surgery gear, which was too short for her long legs, and too wide around her hips.  She had used a surgical stapler on the tough cotton to fold the excess material in around her waist, because the drawstring was gone.

Her expression was grim as we ran through another check of vitals.  As I signed the sheet listing the grim facts, she said, “We’ll lose this one, Michael.”

I shook my head. “There’s hope, yet.  I might be wrong about him being a goblyn.  If he’s becoming a dragon, then he can cope with even this fever.”

“You’ve never yet been wrong about what they will become,” she pointed out, her tone reasonable.  She resettled one of Schroeder’s arms, which had flailed about.

“There’s still things we can do.”

“There is,” she said firmly. 

I lowered the board.  “There isn’t a scrap of proof that sucking up his exhaled air makes any difference at all.”

“You know it does, Michael.”  She maintained the reasonable tone, because we’d had this discussion before. 

“Inhaling bad humors is…medieval,” I shot back.  My anger was building and I tried to squash it, for this was Susuki and she deserved far more from me than my intolerance. 

“So what?  It works.”

“For you it works.  That isn’t science. It’s…”

“Magic is just science you don’t understand.”

“If it was a scientific concept, even one I couldn’t understand, then I should be able to replicate your results, but I cannot. Ergo—”

“You are not fae.”  Suzuki’s tone was flat.  Pragmatic.  “I am.  It is a variable you always refuse to acknowledge–”

“Because there is no proof!”  I had showered her with anger after all.  Well done, bastard.

Suzuki didn’t react.  We’d been here before, too. 

I shook my head once more.  “We both know what is happening here.”  I fought to keep my tone reasonable.  For the sake of the Errata on the campbeds, I didn’t state what was happening aloud, but Suzuki’s tiny nod told me she knew it to.  Schroeder was dying and there was nothing modern medicine could do to help him.  We couldn’t even ease his pain and make him comfortable.

As doctors, our helplessness was maddening.

When that happened, I got angry.  Suzuki just grew thoughtful.

She straightened out the new, fresh sheet beneath Schroeder, watching his laboured panting.  “There is one thing we might try.”

“Something new?” I asked and hated the hopefully, childish upnote in my voice.

Suzuki’s gaze met mine.  “You won’t like it.”

“I have liked very little for too many years.  Tell me.  I can stand it.”

Suzuki was back to watching Schroeder.  “There is a man I’ve heard of, here in Toledo.  He has…skills.”

“Skills like yours?” I asked sharply.  I still wasn’t certain that the fae’s ability to draw out “bad air” from patients, and heal minor complaints and ease major ones wasn’t merely a large scale placebo effect.  The lack of science to back up their abilities was a yawning black hole I didn’t like.

That black hole of information hovered over all the Errata.  Despite three years of watching them, I was no closer to properly understanding their nature than I had when the first Tutu victim had turned.  All I had were precepts.  Don’t give sirens paracetamol.  Don’t give dragons or salamanders aspirin.  It was pathetic.

“Not skills like mine,” Suzuki replied.  “Magorian is human.  He has a way with herbs and–”

“He’s a wiccan?” Horror burst through me.

“He’s a healer,” Suzuki shot back.  Her voice rose.  “You are being obtuse, Michael.”

That tone, those words…I had heard them almost daily, once.  It was a reminder of Suzuki when she had been human and I had been terrified of her, and fascinated by such fierceness emerging from such a tiny body all at once.

But I felt no amusement.  “If I wanted a wiccan, I’d call my bloody aunt Suzy and tell her to bring her soothe stones.”

“You don’t have an aunt suzy.”

“Now you’re precise.”

“I’m always precise.  You don’t give up on patients, Michael.  You are relentless.  Except you will not use all the tools you have within reach, and that is…it is irritating.  And it is a crime.  These people are dying and hurting!”

“If science isn’t serving, I should have a bash at just anything?”

Suzuki loolked at me as those she was suppressing the need to box my ears.  Then she drew herself up—and when she did that, she was taller than me.  She raised her hands, palms up, looking eriely like paintings of Jesus ministering to the weak and needy.

The air in the room shifted.  A breeze whirled, fanning my face.  The air, already heated by the morning sun, grew cooller as it played over my flesh. 

Schroeder gave a soft sound, and his mouth opened.  A sigh. 

On the monitor, his body temperature dropped a degree.  Then another.  Then three more.

“Magic isn’t a sideshow,” Suzuki siad.  “It is as real as you and me.  As real as that monitor.”

“And if he is becoming a dragon, you’re endangering him, “ I pointed out coldly.  “Science is real, too. Facts. Data.  They’re undeniable.”

The breeze halted and I felt a touch of regret.  “Besides, you can’t keep that up forever,” I pointed out.

“I cannot?” Suzuki asked coldly.  “How would you know?”

I didn’t know.  That was the problem. 

Schoeder’s body temperature ticked up another degree.

Suzuki tilted her head, as if to say “So?”