Inherited Magic

by Andrew Gordinier

  He looked at her in what he thought was a subtle and discreet way; there is no such thing though, where the women we love are concerned. He looked at her and her pattern and tried to figure out what it was about her that made her the point around which he revolved. There was nothing exceptional about her pattern in a cold and logical sort of way, but he found that even the curves, spirals, and complexity of her pattern were beautiful in a way he could not put words to. She looked exotic to John, but that was only a part of her appeal. Her eyes were bright, and she had a smile and laugh that he lived for, to say nothing of her intelligence and courage that John found intimidating and attractive at the same time. Class ended and like a fool John was still staring at Radha as she stood up.

  “Can I walk you to work?” John hurriedly gathered his notebook and things.

  “Are you going to keep staring at me with puppy dog eyes?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Radha laughed, and John found that, for a moment, he didn't give a damn about anything else.

  Outside it was a typical Chicago afternoon for winter. There was the smell of snow in the air and the whole world seemed in motion with people in a rush to or from somewhere. Radha walked close to John, but made no effort to take his hand or warp her arm around his.

  “Who was in the limo the other night?”

  “An old friend of Owen's.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Conrad.” He had to fight back the desire to say that he suspected that he was Owen's teacher.

  “John, was Owen in the mob?”

  “Huh?” There are times when playing dumb is not an act.

  “You've been arrested . . .”

  “They didn't arrest me for anything; they just wanted to ask me some questions.”

  “Really?” Radha stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and leveled a gaze at him that was withering.

  “It wasn't . . .”

  “You were in police custody!”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “You were arrested.” She abruptly started walking again and left John to catch up.

  “Radha, it's procedure. They had to question me.” John was struggling with how to get out of the trouble he suddenly found himself in.

  “How did Conrad know where to find you?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Who's been following me? And is it because of you and your not-mob ties?”

  “Someone has been following you?” John felt a cold rush of fear and panic. Would someone hurt Radha to get to him? In thinking about the short but impressive list of people who wanted to do him harm, John felt stupid for thinking someone wouldn't.

  “Yes, and it's because of you.”

  John stammered and had no defense.

  “John, tell me the truth. Why are people following us? Are you in trouble?”

  “Radha . . .” He wanted the next words out of his mouth to be the impossible unacceptable truth. She wouldn't believe it though, who would? He couldn't lie though . . . “Radha, I can’t tell you about it. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I just need you to believe that I'm not doing anything—”

  “John, tell me the truth now or forget it.”

  “I—” John looked up and out of the corner of his eye spotted a flash of purple. At the end of the block, Peter was smugly standing in the open watching them. His pattern had a pressed look to it and was again partially hidden by his overcoat; did he think John couldn't see him? Was he the only one following them?

  “John! Tell me the truth.”

  “I can't Radha. You just have to trust me.”

  “Forget it, John. Don't call me anymore.” She stormed off, blazing with anger and frustration, leaving John in the middle of the sidewalk feeling gutted and wondering how he had not seen this coming.

  “Radha!” He chased after her.

  “John, if you can't tell me the truth, then what can I trust?”

  “Radha, my life is not in a sane place right now. I can't tell you the truth because-”

  “Because what, John?” She glared at him.

  “Please, Radha. This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Then tell me the truth, now.”

  “Radha . . .”

  “Don't call me.” She stormed off.

  John looked around to see where Peter had gone. He was on the other side of the street, casually dodging people as he shadowed Radha. She was in danger, and he couldn’t tell her. As John slowly walked after Radha, trying keep a discrete eye on Peter, he fought with all the emotions welling up inside him. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Desperation. Anger. They all fought for his attention and clouded his mind with visions of revenge and redemption that he should have left alone; that on any other day would have been clearly bad ideas. But this was not any other day. This was the day where John hit his limit.

  There is no shame in saying it: we all have a limit, a point where we either break and turn to bad habits, follow a bad idea, or give up in some small way. The thing to realize about those moments is that they do not define us. They break the barriers between what we are and what we can be. Those moments are when we crack our shells and grow a bit more; we can define how later, in better terms, when we wash away the pain and strain. We have to see them through, and we cannot turn and run from them, or we never change. This was a lesson John had learned in the last six months. He was not ready to verbalize it yet, but he understood it.

  Radha walked into what she called her “tacky evil big box job” and John slowed his pace, trying to decide what to do next, how to confront Peter, when he saw something that made him pause and laugh. Peter walked into an alley and hopped to the top of a dumpster and from there to the top of the building. It wasn't the fact that he did it or the fact that he used magic to do it, but the fact that the magic wasn't his. He had activated a pattern hidden in his designer shoes, a pattern put there by a mage for someone who wasn't. John never would have spotted it if he still had to focus to see patterns; it was pure chance that he saw it as it was. He slipped across the street and worked up to a run. As he approached the alley, he put the finishing touches on a theory and decided to test it.

  He ran to the same dumpster and loosened gravity’s hold on himself so he could jump to the roof top. He landed with a grace that surprised him and he felt like a superhero. Peter was on the other side of the roof, dialing a cellphone, as he watched the door Radha had gone into. John stood as tall as he could on the ledge, almost willing himself to be taller and more intimidating. He did a quick mental inventory, to make sure he was ready and convinced himself he was.

  “Hey! Pretty boy, why you following my girlfriend? Veronica a bad lay?” John shouted it clear and loud as he stepped off the ledge to the rooftop. It wasn't clever enough or insulting enough, but it was a start.

  Peter turned and briefly looked startled, but recovered quickly. He dropped his cellphone and reached into his coat, as if to pull a gun out. In John's mind, it all started to slow down a bit—not because of any magical ability but because of that wondrous thing called fear and adrenaline. John had not stopped to think that Peter might have a gun on him; he had been in a hurry to test out his theory that Peter wasn't a mage or even a student.

  The first shot went wild and to the left of John, who had taken his experience chasing lunatics to heart and was already running at a steep angle across Peter's field of vision, forcing him to turn and adjust his footing to keep shooting. John was closing distance, but the second shot was closer, and the third was just plain scary, so he changed tactics. He leaped right at Peter and tumbled to stay below his field of fire. John added to that a few quick patterns to speed himself up and closed the distance in a flash, slamming into Peter in a very poorly executed body slam. Poorly executed or not it, was enough to knock Peter back thirty feet, knock his gun from his hand, and send him and the gun crashing to the street below. John landed on his side, just shy of the roof's edge.

  He rebounded quickly and scrambled to his feet, to see Peter
trying to run down an alley on the other side of the street. He was limping badly and either pulling his coat closer or clutching his chest. John was about to leap after him but was halted in mid step by a ringing cell phone. It was Peter's, lying there where he had dropped it. As is it rang, a name flashed across the screen: “Veronica.” John laughed to himself as he shoved it into his pocket. He lightly dropped to the street below, scaring the hell out of people walking by. Running across the street, he saw Peter’s gun lying in traffic where it had fallen. John scooped it up, more out of concern that some kid might find it than to use it himself. He was developing a real dislike of guns.

  Peter was easy to catch up with; he must have been seriously hurt by his fall. John caught up with him where the alley ended under the L tracks for the Red Line. Peter heard John behind him and tried to run faster, looking around in a panic for a way out. When John grabbed a handful of Peter’s overcoat and pushed him to the ground, Peter grunted weakly and landed in a heap next to a rusted dumpster.

  They stared at each other in silence for a moment, both breathing hard from their brief but violent encounter. Peter definitely looked bad; he was pale and kept a hand clutched to chest. There were a few small cuts on his hands, and it was clear that he had broken something in his right leg. John didn't care though. This was the prick who had killed Owen, and he had been shadowing Radha; it was hard to imagine that he did not mean her ill.

  “You are so dead.” Peter was breathing heavy. John could tell by his pattern that Peter had several cracked ribs. “You have no idea how many laws you are breaking.”

  “You’re right, Pete. I don’t know. I do know you murdered Owen though.”

  “Too bad about him really. I felt awful when that burglar killed him.” Peter’s smile was insulting.

  “Not gonna be honest? Too bad.” John held up Peter's gun so he could see him check the chamber. It was a newer model than the pistol Owen had shown him how to use, but the basics were the same.

  “There are rules . . .You can't just kill me.”

  “I don't know if you've heard, but I'm new to this. I didn't get a copy of the rules.” John leveled the gun at Peters head. “I want answers.”

  “Fuck you.” Peter said it forcefully but ended with a cough that looked painful.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “John! Put the fucking gun down!”

  John turned to see Agent Harris coming down the alley with a submachine gun at the ready; she was followed by two other agents with their own weapons. There was a van behind them that blocked the alley. “I'm not gonna say it again, drop the gun!”

  “Fine.” John lowered the gun and turned on the safety. “But, I'm not dropping it.”

  “You're under arrest.”

  “Which one of us?” Peter’s voice was pained but still sarcastic.

  “Both of you.”

  “Fuck you.” John was done and decided to push it and see how far he could take it. “You can have Pete-the-prick. He killed Owen and who knows who else.”

  “John, you're coming with us.”

  “No.” He turned on Agent Harris and walked towards her.

  She shouldered her gun out of reflex and leveled it at John.

  “I'm done,” John said. “Everyone wants to push me around and think that I'm gonna play nice and take it. Not anymore. If you want to kill me, go ahead and try. Otherwise, stay the hell away from me.” By the time he stopped walking, the barrel of Agent Harris's nasty looking weapon was pressed into his chest.

  “Are you stupid?” Agent Harris actually seemed surprised.

  “I think he might be brain damaged, if you ask me.” Peter was trying to use the wall to help himself get to his feet.

  “I'm not asking you. Cuff him and get him medical attention.” The two FBI goons moved quickly to do as they were told and ignored Peter's complaints.

  “He's not a mage.” John didn't know if that would make things worse or better for Peter. There was something he did know though. “But, if you look close enough, I'm sure you'll be able to prove he killed Owen . . . And others.”

  “You're an idiot! Do you have any idea what you're doing, turning me over to them?” Peter was being hoisted off the ground in a rough manner by the agents.

  “It's better than you deserve.” John dropped the pistol and turned away from the muzzle of Agent Harris's gun.

  “Don't move.”

  “No.” John kept walking down the alley towards the far end.

  “Don't push me, John!”

  “Push you?” John turned around and locked eyes with her.

  “John, you're turning into a wild card here. You won't last long that way. Come and work for us; you’ll be safer.” Agent Harris lowered her gun and there was an audible click as she hit the safety with her thumb.

  “No.” John turned and started walking away.

  “Don't think I'm cleaning up your mess for you, John,” she called after him, when he reached the corner. “Everyone gets held accountable eventually.”

  He rounded the corner and walked under the L tracks to the street. If she said anything else, it was lost in the noise of a passing train.

  John walked down the sidewalk towards people and shops. No one acted as if there had just been gunfire; no one seemed to notice the sirens in the distance. Peter's cell phone started to ring in his pocket; he had forgotten it. He pulled it out and looked at the screen with a smile. It was flashing the name “Veronica” again. He hit the answer button and held it to his ear, but said nothing.

  “Peter! What the hell is going on? Did you kill that bitch?”

  “I'm sorry, Peter can't come to the phone right now.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is John, Veronica. Peter is busy being arrested by the FBI.” It felt good for John to be able to drive that point home.

  “I'm going to kill you.” Her voice was a near shout.

  “Yes, but you will have to find someone else to help you shave.” This was too much fun.

  “I'm gonna kill—”

  John hung up on her because he had no doubt she could find him through the cell phone. Magic or not, there are more than a few apps for finding lost or stolen phones. So he handed it to the first homeless person he passed on the street. By the time she did find it, someone else would have a nice new expensive smart phone, and they could deal with her.

  Chapter 51

  John was sitting on his bed, trying to figure out his life and if he could get it back in order, when his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?'

  “Is this John?” The voice on the other end was female and pleasant, but not Radha.

  “Yeah, and who is this?” John was fully expecting some outlandish addition to his nightmare.

  “My name is Paula. I'm Owen's daughter.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We meet at your fathers wake didn’t we?” John suddenly felt silly being rude and assuming that it was someone out to get him.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

  “You guys were kind of having a family moment.” The wake had reminded John of his own father’s recent funeral and left him feeling hollow and alone again.

  “Thank you, but I did need to ask you for some help. Owen left a few things at the shop and we need help, there aren’t any other mages in the family.”

  “Sure. When is a good time?”

  “We’re there now.”

  “I'll be there as soon as I can.” He pulled on his coat, found his keys, and headed for the door. As he did so he considered what she had said about there being no other mages in the family. Owen had mentioned a brother once, who had learned magic. What happened to him? Then there was the obvious question of why no one else had learned, or why no else had been taught?

  When John arrived, the lights were on in the shop, and it made him feel sad to know that Owen was not sitting by the register with a book. He knocked on the door and expected to wait, but almost immediately a short woman appeared and o
pened the door.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Hi, good to see you again.”

  “Thank you.” She let him in, and they shook hands. She was short and slim, with her hair cut very short. She didn't have earrings, but John did notice a small gold stud on her nose.

  “You said you needed help?”

  “Dad left this letter with his will.” Paula handed him a note covered in Owen’s unique handwriting. John skimmed it and saw that it left instructions that John should be contacted if they couldn’t get into the safe on their own. It had an insulting tone to it.

  “You can’t get into the safe in the back?” John was hoping he wouldn’t have to open the hidden safe in the basement.

  “No, the one in the basement.” Paula started walking toward the back, so John followed and felt unlucky. “Dad left some pretty specific directions for everything, but he never said how we were supposed to get through his magic trick.” As they approached the basement, John could hear talking.

  “I thought you . . .”

  “Knew magic? Hell, no. Dad offered to teach me, but I saw all the trouble it caused with him and grampa, so I refused. He was upset that neither of us learned.” To John, that explained the tone of the note and answered some of his other questions.

  They found their way through the basement and were standing near the corner with the safe. Leaning against the wall and talking were two guys holding sledge hammers; both had stripped off their shirts and wore strapped t-shirts.

  “John, this is Junior.” John shook hands with the shorter of the two. He had dark skin, a clean shaven head, and a neatly trimmed beard. “And this is my husband, Wilson.” As they shook hands Wilson nearly crushed John’s hand. He was muscular, tall, light-skinned, and all smile. He had seen them at the wake but hadn’t been introduced.

  “Wil didn't believe me when I told him there was no way we were getting through that wall. I really don't think John here is gonna be able to do it either.” Junior spoke as an authority on the subject, with a smirk on his face.