The Wizard

by Karen Ranney

  The more he learned, the more he realized the degree of power he possessed, at least if he believed Grace.

  Grace had something she had to do the next day which freed Derek up to focus on his research. He’d already contracted with several expensive research databases he hadn’t been able to afford earlier. He still wasn’t able to locate much information on NASACA, including membership. For an organization that boasted hundreds of thousands of members, they managed to stay beneath the radar.

  He called the police, but wasn’t able to get any additional information about the shooting. In other words, the police didn’t know who’d tried to kill him.

  After three hours of searching about Jeffrey North on the new databases, he discovered that North had a primary residence in what was essentially a converted castle in the countryside, living in London during the week and commuting home on the weekend by helicopter.

  In addition to being the head of a half dozen corporations and on the board of a dozen more, North was considered to be antisocial. Evidently, it was considered a triumph if someone convinced the quasi-hermit to attend a party they hosted.

  Jeffrey North, wizard, was definitely not a traditionalist. He’d sponsored several architects, some of whom were responsible for buildings Derek considered hideous now sprinkled through London. North also liked modern art, eschewing the works of the masters.

  He was reputed to have said, “If I wanted something to look like what it was, I would take a photograph of it. Give me imagination. Give me the soul of the artist."

  Derek was on the other side of the fence. There were several large paintings, all modern art, sprinkled through the Crow’s Nest. He tried to ignore them where he could.

  He and his birth father didn’t have much in common.

  Whenever a newspaper article featured North, the tone changed to one of fawning, with almost the same respect and reverence as that given to the royal family. Derek hadn’t been able to find one critical thing written about North. Nor could he locate a picture of his father. There were some paparazzi shots of the back of North’s figure or of his limo as it pulled away from the curb, but nothing of the man’s face.

  No doubt that was magic at work.

  When he was in his twenties Derek used to imagine what it would be like to win a Pulitzer. Or to have a byline in the New York Times. Success, at that age, meant being so famous that people would look up to him. Mothers would advise their children to follow his path. He’d give motivational speeches, or be seen as an inspiration. Strangely, money never entered into his success fantasies.

  His previous definition of success now meant nothing. Right at the moment all he wanted was to be the best damn wizard he could be and solve the mysteries springing up around him.

  Most of the spells Grace had taught him worked fine. He could color the air with a fine mist in any shade he chose. He could move objects, even heavy ones. He could even suspend some items in the air. Not for long, but Grace assured him that practice would give him more control. She’d even told him that he could levitate once he learned how. That might prove helpful if he ever had to paint the ceiling.

  He was afraid that some of his newfound power might be detrimental, because his new iPhone was already giving him problems in the form of static appearing on random screens. Was there such a thing as a wizard proof case?

  Another task he gave himself: calling Paul and finally having the confrontation he’d delayed for so long.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a witch?”

  Silence was Paul’s response.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be? I ask questions and you don’t answer them?”

  “Who told you, Grace?”

  “That’s another thing. All my life you’ve given me the impression that you didn’t know who my birth mother was. Imagine my surprise to find out that you were well acquainted with her.”

  “Not well acquainted, no. I knew of her. I wasn’t friends with her. Neither was your mother.”

  “What about Lionel Adams? Did you know about him, too?”

  Paul retreated into silence once again.

  The lack of an answer irritated him.

  “Well? While we’re at it, why didn’t you tell me about Breanna? Was your loyalty to NASACA greater than to your own son?” Until the words came out of his mouth Derek hadn’t realized how bitter he was. He’d felt cut out, separated from his parents and his wife and the betrayal didn’t sit well.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to discuss this over the phone, Derek. You need a little time to absorb this information and to calm down. Why don’t I come over there tomorrow?”

  “So you think twenty-four hours will be all it takes for me to calm down, is that it?”

  “Would you have believed me if I’d told you?”

  The question mirrored Grace’s so much that it set him back on his heels. “Which one? Which revelation?”

  “Any of them. Pick one. Pick all of them. Would you have believed me, Derek? Or would you have chalked me up to being a loon? A little early onset Alzheimer’s? A little too much wacky tobacky?”

  He hadn’t expected a counter assault from Paul. Maybe he wouldn’t have listened, especially if Paul had announced, out of the blue, that Breanna was a witch.

  “I take it you know something of your history by now,” Paul said. “That’s another thing I don’t want to talk about on the phone.”

  He disliked feeling like a child being lectured for asking an indelicate question. This was his life. He hung up without responding to his father. A few seconds later the phone rang again. He didn’t even look at it, only stuffed it into his pocket and left the study.

  As he hesitated in the corridor, the quiet settled around him like a too heavy blanket. The house should have a family in it, six or seven children, a few dogs and cats, maids and gardeners. The noise of life, something more than this oppressive silence. Yesterday was Mary’s day to come, but she’d been gone by the time he’d returned from Grace’s house.

  He felt drawn to the secret room and as he walked up the stairs he wondered if it was a mistake to go back there, especially having learned what he had.

  He pulled the key out of his pocket and opened the door, remembering the story from his childhood of Pandora’s box. Maybe he was doing something wrong by even entering the room. Maybe he should hire someone to come in and pack everything up and take it to the landfill.

  When he entered the room he slammed the door behind him, took in the sight of the open cupboard, the ancient book, and noticed something he hadn’t seen before: the air was shimmering.

  He deliberately walked into the depths of it, feeling the air drape over him. He knew, almost instinctively, that whatever it was, spirit, energy, a force field — was protective and not there to harm him.

  It didn’t make any sense, but he knew it was Breanna.

  He closed his eyes, envisioning her in one of his countless memories. Breanna laughing. Breanna smiling at something he’d said. Breanna, showing her exasperation at her co-workers. Breanna, modeling a new dress. When he opened his eyes she was there. Just as she had been in Grace’s garden. Translucent, but present. A trick of the mind, the eyes, a manifestation of magic to ease his grief.

  He stretched out his hand and the image before him, attired in a dark blue suit with an ivory blouse, did the same. At first he thought that he could almost feel her hand on his, but that was only what he wanted to believe, not reality. What was real was the sudden pinching of his heart, the overwhelming swelling feeling that he couldn’t bear this. With this vision, he was aware of the magnitude of his loss.

  Just like that, she was gone again.

  He bowed his head, took several deep breaths, and composed himself. Finally, he sat, staring at the book he’d retrieved from the locked cabinet.

  Lionel’s book.

  Because of the obvious age of the volume, he was careful when turning the pages. With the help of a translation app he figured
out that the language wasn’t Celtic or Latin, but an odd amalgamation of both. He couldn’t find any direct translations for a great many words, but he was able to figure out a few: danger, death, soul.

  He began in the first third of the book, trying to get some idea of the spells by the drawings that accompanied them. He had a feeling that some of them were love potions. The ingredients were odd, herbs he’d never heard of, or maybe it was simply that he couldn’t translate them into something in the twenty-first century. Not an eye of newt among them.

  One of the drawings was of a thickly bearded man in a long robe wearing a pointed hat. Both of his hands were outstretched toward the sky, fingers splayed as if to hold back the sun. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere, but in the bottom margin of the page raindrops had been drawn. It was obviously a spell to bring rain.

  There weren’t any windows in this room, no view of the day or the weather. Yet this was Texas and they could always use rain. He might butcher the pronunciation of some of the words, but Grace had taught him that intent and will could be as powerful as skill.

  Let it rain, then.

  He stood, mimicking the figure of the man in the pointed hat, his hands outstretched in the direction he estimated the sun to be. Glancing down at the book he repeated the words written there in faded ink. The six lines were easy enough, especially after all the Latin spells Grace had given him.

  The rumble of thunder made him smile.

  He clicked on the weather app on his phone. Sure enough, a thunderstorm was on its way, but it could have been forecast before the incantation. He should have checked first.

  The next page showed the picture of a dragon, his tail winding down and around the right side and ending at the bottom of the page. He didn’t know what a dragon spell entailed and wasn’t in any hurry to find out. According to the translation app the next several spells involved hexing your enemy and bringing bad luck — or rats — to those you disliked.

  He didn’t dislike anyone enough to summon a plague, thanks.

  The faith surrounding his childhood was difficult to dismiss, even now as he toyed with what was obviously black magic. Would a lightning bolt strike him? Would God himself punish him for practicing magic? According to Grace, no. God had created magic as He’d created the rest of the world.

  For the most part Derek hadn’t expressed his faith on a daily basis. After he left for college he hadn’t attended church. Four years of undergraduate studies and a master’s degree had helped him develop a cynical view of organized religion. Yet he still believed in God. He hadn’t tipped over into full atheism like some of his college friends.

  Would the God of his childhood approve of this book? Or his actions? Maybe that’s who he addressed in the silence of the room.

  “Look, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’d appreciate some guidance here.”

  The pages of the book began to turn, almost as if there was a wind blowing them. The air conditioning vent was on the other side of the windowless room. Nor was there a draft coming from beneath the closed door.

  After the past week he shouldn’t be surprised that a book could turn its own pages. The pages stopped almost at the end of the book.

  The calligraphy was difficult to translate but he was able to make out a few words at the top of the page. He punched a sentence into the translator app and read: The Cure for Death.

  His stomach clenched. Fear did that to him.

  According to Grace, Lionel had succeeded in bringing back the dead. Had he used this spell to reanimate his beloved wife? That was another secret Breanna had kept. Not once had she mentioned anything about her dead mother returning and living here.

  Of course, he doubted that he would have believed her. The day his wife died was a demarcation in his life. Before that point he’d been naive and ignorant. Now he knew too damn much and his knowledge was growing every day.

  How much of his life with Breanna had been pretense and how much was real? He’d probably never know. Breanna was beyond his questioning.

  Unless she wasn’t.

  What he was thinking was idiotic and required a suspension of disbelief. One of the reasons he never read science fiction was that, unless the world building was excellent, he could always spot an error in logic. He had to at least believe in the possibility of the author’s world happening.

  Yet what he was proposing was miles beyond that. Okay, so he could conjure up a memory, create a thunderstorm, produce a rabbit from a thought, and alter time. That was a far cry from bringing back the dead.

  He couldn’t help but think of a horror writer’s book about pets returning from the grave. That hadn’t turned out well.

  Yet according to Grace the only reason that Emily Adams wasn’t walking around today was because of the Elders of NASACA. If they hadn’t lowered the boom on Lionel she might’ve attended his wedding.

  Had she looked dead?

  Would Breanna?

  He stood and moved away from the book as if to physically distance himself from his own thoughts.

  Even now he felt like only a thin veil separated the two of them, that all he had to do was brush it aside and he would see Breanna standing there smiling.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  Something insane. Beyond insane.

  He returned to the chair and read the two pages carefully, translating what he could. Beneath the heading was a list, evidently the ingredients needed for this spell. He didn’t recognize most of them. After taking pictures of both pages, he put the phone back in his pocket. Standing, he grabbed the ornate key and left the room, locking the door behind him.

  27

  On the way down the stairs the gong sounded, that annoying doorbell that Breanna had loved. He’d hated the damn thing since the day he moved in and made a mental note to call somebody and get it replaced. Anything would be better, even a female scream.

  Mary wasn’t expected today and they normally didn’t get solicitors at the Crow’s Nest. The approach was too intimidating, not to mention that he’d had no trespassing signs put up along the road to the house.

  The gong sounded again as he crossed the foyer and opened one of the heavy metal doors. The doors were designed to impress and were irritatingly cumbersome.

  Ellie stood there. Ellie, with her bright red hair, and her smile only slightly tempered by her paleness.

  “Ellie? What are you doing here?”

  She had her arm in a sling, one that was wrapped securely around her upper body. She’d covered her bandage with a bright green scarf.

  “I wasn’t hallucinating, was I? You did hire me, didn’t you? I certainly hope so because I gave Billy my notice.”

  “Yes, I did. I just didn’t expect you to show up this early. You need time to heal, Ellie.”

  He stepped aside so she could enter the house. She passed him with a smile, before getting the same look on her face as everyone did when they stepped inside the Crow’s Nest.

  The foyer was impressive, three stories of open space revealing the panorama of windows everywhere. Even on a cloudy day, like today, there was light in abundance.

  The three-story ceiling was made of clear glass. Hanging from the support was a massive chandelier Lionel had imported from France. The many tiered creation was festooned with thousands of crystal icicles that cast sunlight all over the walls. At night it was even more impressive with the candle shaped bulbs sending glittering light throughout the space.

  He didn’t know if it was an accident or deliberate design, but the foyer was an echo chamber. Anything whispered here could easily be heard dozens of feet away.

  During a party the din was annoying.

  “I am healing,” she said, her eyes on the view around her. “I’m a witch, remember?”

  He hadn’t forgotten, but he still thought she was pushing herself.

  “Are you sure you’re healthy enough to come to work?”

  She nodded, her attention on him once again. “So healthy that my mother su
ggested I keep my sling on for another week. Otherwise, people would think that it was a miracle.”

  “In other words people don’t know about witches, is that it?”

  “Oh, they know, but they don’t know.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s like a lot of things in life,” she said, smiling. “You know about them, but you don’t really accept them. People have heard about witches all their lives, but until they’re in the presence of magic they don’t believe.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “If I’m too early, Derek, I can always go home. It’s just that my mother was driving me nuts. Plus, I was bored out of my mind. Tell me when you want me to show up.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he said, but instead of leading her up the stairs he turned toward the kitchen.

  She rearranged the strap on her shoulder. He’d never seen her without the beige leather satchel that bulged at the seams. More than once he wanted to ask what she carried with her that was so important, but he never had.

  Maybe he would now.

  “Are you going to write a book?” she asked as they walked down the hall. “Is that why you’ve taken a sabbatical?”

  He’d thought about it. For years he’d wished he could take some time off and write a blockbuster about Texas politics. He hadn’t for one reason: he couldn’t afford it.

  Now he certainly could.

  Ellie drank her coffee just like he did: black with no sugar. She’d tried to give it up twice, but both times succumbed to caffeine as her drug of choice. Her words, not his.

  He poured the coffee, set it on the kitchen table and joined her.

  For the next fifteen minutes they talked about people they knew at the Herald, Billy, especially.

  “When I told him I was leaving the paper he wanted to know where I was going, but I didn’t think it was any of his business.”

  “I’ll bet that drove him nuts.” Billy was invariably nosy.

  She had a lovely smile, one with no hint of duplicity. Before the other day he would have put Ellie down as a woman with little guile.