Wizard's Nocturne: The Sixth Jonathan Shade Novel

by Gary Jonas

  “Good thing you're not him.”

  She shook her head. “You think you know him.”

  “I know I do. He won't kill anyone unless he feels he has to. At the moment, he feels the score is mostly even, but he will want that vial, and if he's willing to kill for it, I say we just give it to him.”

  “You don't think he can get Penick to volunteer again?”

  “Penick didn't want to volunteer the first time. He gave that blood to me convinced I didn't have any magic. He knew that it was going to Henry as well, but we had leverage, so he went along with it, and I know he had no clue why we wanted it, or he would not have agreed. Winslow could force him to bleed, but the spell requires intent, and if the intent is to make someone die for you, the spell could backfire. Even with his power, he won't risk that. He needs the vial, and he knows it's here.”

  “Changing the subject, I found some files in your office.”

  “So?” I said.

  “You wrote about your experiences.”

  “A life worth living is worth recording,” I said.

  “I read bits and pieces.”

  “Spoilers,” I said.

  She didn't catch the reference, but it didn't matter. “I'm the one who will read the last chapter of an Agatha Christie novel once I'm a few chapters in.”

  “I remember but with her books, the killer is almost always the person with no known motive.”

  “I read your last page.”

  “It's been a few days,” I said. “You'll have to refresh my memory.”

  She remained crouched there in the darkness, staring at me. “You shouldn't give up,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You wrote that you know your time was nearly over and that you were okay with that.”

  “I'm eighty-five years old, Kelly. I'd better be okay with it. My ticker won't last all that much longer.”

  “Is that how you meant it?”

  “I don't even remember writing it.”

  “I just thought . . . you know . . . that you were thinking of sacrificing yourself to save everyone else. That's how it read to me.”

  “I'm not that noble,” I said. “I'm just tired.”

  She relaxed. “Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “Serves you right for reading my journal.”

  “You read mine,” she said. “Well, the other Kelly's.”

  “She was dead.”

  “In that case, I apologize if I violated your privacy.”

  “You were looking for what I said about you.”

  “No, I was looking for what you said about Winslow.”

  “That was just your excuse.”

  “What was can never be again,” Kelly said.

  “Sure makes for some nice memories, though,” I said.

  She gave me a sad smile. “I don't have those memories.” She rose gracefully and walked silently away.

  I watched her go and made a note to box up those files. If things went as I hoped, she'd know she was right and that my sacrifice was worth it.

  ***

  Late the next night, someone knocked on the front door.

  We were all seated at my dining room table, snacking on crackers and working on a variety of spells that might help hold Winslow at bay. We all turned toward the door at the sound of knocking.

  “Who would come calling at this hour?” Naomi asked.

  I glanced at Kelly. “Wouldn't it be funny if I answered the door and it was Winslow? He could kill me where I stand, and I'd have died because he was polite enough to knock?”

  “You're worse than my Jonathan,” Kelly said. She set a handful of crackers on the dining room table and moved to answer the door.

  “All those years of additional experience,” I said.

  Kelly opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  “You!” a familiar female voice said. “You were with the man who bumped off Henry!”

  “Esther?” I said, pushing myself to my feet.

  “I should call the police,” Esther said.

  “Knock yourself out,” Kelly said.

  I intervened, placing myself between Kelly and Esther. “It's all right, Esther. Kelly is one of the good guys.”

  “Says you.”

  “Really, it's fine. What brings you out here?”

  She held up a ream of paper. “I finished typing Henry's book like you requested.”

  “Like I requested?” I asked. A sinking sensation set up shop in my gut.

  “A few days ago, I got a call from that flat tire, Carlton Penick. He said you wanted me to finish typing the book and bring it out to you today. Since you paid me a lot of dough, I thought it was a good idea, but it meant I had to drop everything to get it done on time.”

  “Come inside, Esther.”

  She noticed the way I was looking around her. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I said and practically pulled her into the apartment.

  She stopped when she saw Shade. “That's the palooka who shot Henry! What the hell is going on here?”

  I closed the door and reached out to try to touch her arm to get her attention, but the door flew off its hinges and sailed over my head. It flipped and slammed into the floor in front of Shade, standing there as a barrier. He tried to step around it, and it slid over to block his path. When he moved, it moved to counter.

  “I hate magic,” Shade said. He reached out, caught the door by its sides, lifted it over his head, and tried to throw it back toward the entrance, but it shot backward and smacked him in the face, knocking him to the floor. He started to get up, but the door brandished itself at him, and he remained on the ground, staring at the entrance.

  I spun and watched Henry Winslow walk into my apartment.

  “I realize it hasn't been that long, but it's so nice to see everyone again,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You just had to get the band back together for a reunion tour.”

  “I didn't want anyone to miss the fireworks.”

  Esther's eyes widened when she saw Winslow. “Jeepers creepers!” she said. “Henry? You're alive? How is that even--?”

  “It's nice to see you again, Miss Carmichael,” Winslow said. “I missed you.”

  “But this thug shot you in the head!”

  “And I managed a somewhat miraculous return. I'd love to tell you all about it, but it's time for everyone to take a little ride.”

  “What?” Esther said. “Where are we going?”

  “Leave Esther out of it,” I said.

  “Oh, but that wouldn't be fair to her, Jonathan. She was part of this from the very start and in every iteration. I want to include everyone of even minor import in the audience for the ritual. As long as everyone behaves, I won't harm anyone.”

  “You know we can't behave,” Kelly said.

  He shrugged. “Your every action is a choice, Kelly. I do hope this rendition of you is smarter than the last one.”

  “Shit,” Naomi said.

  Winslow laughed. “I apologize, Mrs. Shade, but I turned off your little spell of holding before I entered the apartment. It wouldn't have held someone of even Carlton's level, but I applaud your efforts.”

  “It wasn't done yet.”

  “And it never shall be.”

  Esther stared at Winslow. “I'm all balled up here, Henry. What the hell is going on?”

  “You typed the book, Miss Carmichael. Did you not read it?”

  “Types of magic, sympathetic, light, dark, ley lines of power, prices, and on and on,” she said. “It's all real?”

  “Every word,” he said.

  “I think I'm going to faint.”

  I moved to her side and put an arm around her. “You're going to be fine, Esther. Nobody's going to hurt you.”

  “Someone tried to hurt her,” Winslow said. “You'll be pleased to know that I protected her.”

  “Who tried?” I asked. “Penick?”

  “Of
course not.”

  “Then who?”

  “A group of warrior spirits called the Vanguard,” he said. “I had to destroy several hundred of them on my way over here, and I suspect Central Park is brimming with them.”

  “You destroyed hundreds?”

  “They tried to attack me.”

  “Henry, those were living people possessed by the spirits.”

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  “They were living people!”

  “The operative word there is 'were.'“

  “But--”

  Winslow walked right up to me and stared into my eyes. “Those people were casualties of war from the moment those spirits entered them. When a spirit possesses a body, the only way to leave is to kill the host. As such, they were already dead.”

  “But--”

  “You called them,” he said. “Isn't that right?”

  I held his gaze. “Yes. I did.”

  “And you knew the spirits would leave only after the host body is dead. You've dealt with enough magic in your long life to know that.”

  “I have.”

  “So those lives are on you.”

  He watched me silently as he let those words sink in.

  After a time, he turned and pointed in the direction of Central Park. “If you'll all accompany me, the show's about to start, and whoever has that vial of Carlton J. Penick's blood should pass it to me now. If you don't, thousands more will die. None of us want that. Right?”

  I turned toward Rayna and gave her a nod.

  She hesitated but from the look in my eyes, she knew I didn't want her to defy Winslow. To do so would mean the deaths of more people. She pulled the vial from her pocket, walked over, and handed it to Winslow.

  “Thank you, Miss Noble,” he said and gestured toward the door. “Now if you'll all move outside, I have cars waiting to take us all to the show.” He gestured behind him, and the door holding Shade at bay flipped away and leaned itself against a wall. “You can come too, Jonathan the younger.”

  “Oh, I'm thrilled,” Shade said, pushing himself to his feet. He touched a spot on his chin, and while there wasn't any blood, I could see a bit of swelling from where the door smacked him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  People stood in rows lining the street.

  Thousands of men, women, and children blocked Fifth Avenue leading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Beyond the museum, Cleopatra's Needle majestically reached for the sky from where it stood on a platform across East Drive on Central Park's Greywacke Knoll.

  The temperature had been in the low twenties when we left my place, but in this part of town, magic roiled in the atmosphere, and the air felt more like fifty degrees. It was eleven-thirty in the evening, and the cast-iron electric lampposts along Fifth Avenue lit the people from above, making them look like an army of the dead cast in dark shadows. Some wore suits and ties, some wore nightgowns and pajamas with slippers, while others were barefoot. They had one thing in common. Every single one of them would be dead in ten minutes.

  Their deaths could be chalked up to my actions. I wanted to go back in time again, arrange one more do-over, alter the plan, forget I ever heard of the Vanguard. Or better yet, go all the way back to the day I was killed so far in the future, and just say no to the offer of my life for a favor to be named later.

  A favor to be named later always costs more than it's worth.

  Always.

  I heard my heart beating in my chest as the limousine slowed before the army of New Yorkers. That army had been pulled from their beds, yanked from their late-night excursions, taken away from their night jobs so they could be cannon fodder against a man a different version of me had murdered. And if I'd had the stones to kill him before that fateful day, all these people would have gone on to live their normal lives.

  They were eerily silent when the cars pulled to a stop before them.

  I rode in the first vehicle with Winslow and Carlton. Esther and Rayna sat in the back with me. Kelly, Naomi, and Shade occupied the second car with Ralph and Ankhesenamun. Five limos made the journey, and their drivers wheeled to the curb less than a block from the museum.

  “What's going on?” Rayna asked.

  “Why are they standing there?” Esther asked.

  “Kill them,” Carlton said. “Run them over!”

  In one sense it didn't matter what happened. I felt pinned to the seat, unable to breathe, and the momentary silence could have filled a lifetime, but it cracked when Winslow opened the car door.

  “It's all right, Carlton,” Winslow said. “Perhaps they can be persuaded to move without violence.”

  Winslow stepped out of the limousine, and I finally managed to move. My back ached and I felt as though all one hundred forty tons of the ancient Egyptian obelisk weighed me down, but I forced myself to climb out of that car on autopilot.

  Winslow held up his arms, and lightning danced around his hands as if his fingertips were Tesla coils. “We need you to clear the street,” Winslow said. “Open a path, and nobody has to die.”

  “That will not happen,” a uniformed police officer said. He raised a gun and fired.

  The bullet slowed to a stop in front of Winslow's chest as if it had been preordained to park in that very spot of air three inches from Winslow's unbeating heart. He shooed it away like an annoying insect. The bullet clattered on the ground and rolled into the gutter, coming to rest in a slick of mud.

  “I do not wish to hurt anyone, but we are going into Central Park, and you will not be able to stop us.”

  “We are the Vanguard,” the people said in unison. “We are one and we are many.”

  “And you are quite annoying.”

  I finally found my breath, and time seemed to click into gear as I reengaged. I pushed past Winslow. “Let me try,” I said.

  “You have two minutes.” His tone suggested I was wasting my time, but I couldn't just stand there and do nothing. I knew I was destined to fail because these people were already doomed. But still, I had to try something.

  Thunder crackled in the clouds, and it began to rain. The sprinkles landed with audible patter on the hood of the limo. They smacked against the cap of the soon-to-be-dead policeman, beading up on the bill and running off to splash on the street. Lightning flashed across the sky, and all that was missing was some ominous music.

  I walked up to the policeman and grabbed his arms. “My name is Jon Easton,” I said. “I called you to come out here, but I also called to cancel the attack.”

  “Four of us have not returned,” the officer said as if four people were reason enough for thousands more to die. “We never lose anyone, for we are one.”

  They were one. So they didn't see it as four. They simply saw it as part of the whole. I clutched at that straw, tried to hang on to it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “What if I can get him to return your warriors? Will you back off then?”

  “We are here for battle, and more of us are coming. We will never stop.”

  “About that,” I said. “You'll use up all the bodies in New York. That's a massive death toll.”

  “Casualties are anticipated and accepted.”

  “These people didn't choose this fight.”

  “We don't care.”

  “You should care. You're supposed to save lives, not end them.”

  “We are supposed to win. That is our sole purpose.”

  “Even if everyone dies?”

  “This is not an extinction-level event.”

  The straw dropped away, and I realized I'd just been clutching at air. There was no way to save these people, and there was no way to stop the coming battle. It was like trying to fight ocean waves as they crashed on the shore. This was the natural order of things to the Vanguard. They did not see casualties as anything because the individual spirits and bodies were simply cells in a larger organism.

  “Tick tock,” Winslow said. “I'd like to perform the ritual at midnight.”

  I glanc
ed back at him. “The ritual doesn't require a specific time.”

  “I'm a traditionalist.” He kept lightning in his palm as he moved up to stand beside me. “These people will die regardless. The Vanguard has possessed them. They cannot be saved.”

  The rain intensified. Lightning crashed and thunder rolled, but I kept trying to hold my breath, kept scrambling for a solution.

  “That's not true,” I said. “The spirits can ease into the background, return control of these bodies to the living hosts, and let these people live out their normal life spans. As long as the spirits don't vacate the bodies, no one here has to die tonight.”

  “I grow weary of this delay. Surely, by now you realize this is a wasted effort.”

  He knew it was pointless, but I couldn't let it go.

  “Henry,” I said, “once you perform the ritual, you'll have forever to do anything your little heart desires. Forever is a long, long time, and delaying the ritual while we work this out doesn't cost you anything.”

  “A long-winded way of telling me to be patient.”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  The leader of the Vanguard nodded. “An appropriate turn of phrase, Mr. Easton.”

  “Something my mother used to say when I was a kid,” I said, hoping that any delay I could provide would give me time to find a way to save the innocent.

  Winslow shook his head. “He's referring to 'Psychomachia,' a poem by Prudentius from the fifth century.”

  “How is that appropriate?” I asked. “Is he saying you're a psycho?”

  Henry sighed. “The title 'Psychomachia' translates to 'Battle of Spirits.'“

  “I guess the spell on my translation earrings doesn't translate titles.” Of course, I wasn't wearing the earrings. I had them in my pocket, but from there I couldn't hear anything from them.

  “Yes, well, vices and virtues are not at odds here,” Winslow said and started to raise his hands.

  I pulled his hands down. “My two minutes aren't up.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Then give me two more.”

  “News flash, genius,” Winslow said. “I gave you the two minutes only so you'd know these people are about to die because of your actions. You murdered my father. You kept me from getting his life energy, and I had to settle for a secondary source at great personal risk. I've enjoyed watching you try to save these fools, but I have a ritual to perform.