Inherited Magic

by Andrew Gordinier

  “Am I in danger now?”

  “No. Things are complicated, but you're safe. I have to . . . face someone in a few weeks; or so and then it will be over.” John tried to hide the dread in his voice.

  “Who do you have to face?”

  “The woman who had Owen killed and tried to have you killed.”

  “Don't tell me this isn't illegal, because it sounds like you are dealing with mobsters.” Her tone turned sharp, and she moved to stand.

  “Radha, I'm not a criminal! I'm just . . . It's complicated.”

  “I'm sure it is, John.” She stood up and walked away.

  John looked at his half-eaten sub for a moment before swearing under his breath. He stood up, threw away what was left of his lunch, and headed for the door. Walking up the steps of the Wilson L stop, he couldn't help but notice how badly the agent following him stood out. Was that part of the plan? To show that he was under surveillance so no one would take a shot at him before the duel? Were they actually looking out for him, in their own screwed up way?

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number off the card in his wallet. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, John. Have you changed your mind yet?” Of course, Agent Harris knew it was him calling.

  “No.”

  “You know Veronica has won three duels that we know of.” Her tone was matter of fact. “We never find a body though, nothing to bury; your mages clean everything up for her. Do I have to say that makes them accomplices to murder?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Not any of your concern.”

  “Like hell. Are you married?”

  “You trying to say something?” There was an edge to her voice that John had not heard before.

  “Yeah.” John looked down on to the cars passing under the L. “You get in my life and crawl around, questioning and intimidating people I care about, and think that you have every right to get away with it because you are the FB-fucking-I.” A guy standing next to John caught the last bit, looked at him, and walked away quickly. “You think that because you follow a set of rules and someone gave you a badge that everyone else should follow those rules and be afraid of you.”

  “You should be careful, John. You might need us someday.”

  “No. You need me today. Otherwise, why all the heavy-handed scare tactics? Why scare my girlfriend?”

  “We don't need you. There is nothing special about you. There are others—”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that, but I think you set your sights on me because I'm in a hard place and you can offer me protection.”

  “God knows you need it, the way you keep screwing up.”

  “Fuck you.” John fought down his anger. “When this is over, things are gonna change, and you won't like it.” John hit the red button on his phone, and it fell silent. He walked over to the agent following him, looked him in the eye, and said; “Fuck you, too.”

  There was a tense moment where they only stared at each other that was unbroken till a Red Line train arrived.

  Chapter 59

  John had never seen time move so fast. Before it all had started, before Barb had left him, back when he was still blind to it all, days crawled by. He and Barb would spend weekends lying around their small apartment doing nothing; those days seemed to last years. He thought back to when he was kid waiting for his father to come home while the babysitter fixed him dinner; that had been an eternity.

  Now it slipped past so fast.

  Three days till the duel. Three days and he did not feel at all ready. True, working out in the gym had trimmed him down, and put him in better shape than he ever had been before; it had also removed his fear of getting punched. He had studied as much of the damned Book as he could and found nothing that was truly new in the first few chapters, not that he hadn't skipped ahead, but that proved even more frustrating. The spells were laid out in a specific way and each built upon the other in complexity. He had skipped ahead and tried a teleport spell and sent a cinder block to . . . Well, it was supposed to be across the room, but he never saw it again. So he kept a slow and steady pace through the book.

  Three days to go. John felt like there should have been a red digital countdown on the wall somewhere. Instead, he was stuck with the tribesman watching him practice mixing boxing and magic. It didn't help that he was eating nachos; the smell of them made John think of a Mexican restaurant on Broadway that he loved.

  What little remained of his concentration was ruined by a knock at the door. John opened it to find Conrad, followed, as always, by Eric. John briefly wondered if he would ever be able to afford goons of his own.

  “How are you doing, John?” Conrad seemed excited.

  “How am I supposed to be doing?” John walked back into the warehouse and left Eric to close the door behind Conrad.

  “Ah, I had heard from my contacts in the FBI that you were developing an attitude with them. Don't think that I'll stand for you trying to tell me off.” Conrad chuckled. “Don't worry; your sparring with the FBI is amusing me and several of the other regents. Mostly Owen's old allies, but that makes them no less important.”

  John had nothing to say.

  “I don't get it though.” Eric chimed in. “Why push them? They can make your life miserable, even as a mage.”

  “Because if I survive this, I am going to cut a deal with Agent Harris that her supervisors won't let her turn down.”

  “Mages don't live long when they work for governments.” Conrad's mood soured sharply.

  “Nope. They are gonna work for us.” John opened a bottle of water and took his time drinking. He liked having a plan and keeping others in the dark. “I am going to explain to them how messy it is to have mages fighting over territory and other bullshit. Then I am going to explain to them that I can convince the other mages here to play nice and get along if they help.”

  “Help?”

  “Yep. They are going to put the other mages under a microscope and make them squirm till they feel like I do. No one can take on the government and expect to win, so I will offer a solution. We form an alliance. No more territory, no more fighting over crumbs, and no more pressure. We organize and start working together.”

  “You really want to die, don't you?” Eric was not even trying to hide his feelings.

  “It has been tried before, John. It almost got Owen and me killed, and I don't think it will work any differently this time.” Conrad tapped the tip of his can on the floor. “These people don't want to change. They cling to the small power they have and won't share it. Nothing divided by nothing is less than nothing to them. The few of us who have actual resources don't want to share with sniveling neophytes.”

  “They'll help if the government pressures them.” John paused for drama. “And, if you help.”

  “If I help?”

  “I can't very well run this. I'm not much more than a student and a problem that people want to go away.”

  A long silence fell between the three of them.

  “Conrad?” Eric looked at Conrad with growing concern. “Conrad?”

  “He might be right, Eric.”

  “Boss, you told me . . . Hell, you tell anyone who will listen that unifying the regents and changing things almost got you killed. What's different this time?”

  “Time and the idea of a common threat that I assume won't really be a threat?”

  “Right.” John was now into the part of his plan he had not thought out very clearly yet.

  “So what are we to do in return for the government leaving us alone?” Eric looked skeptical.

  “I hadn't gotten that far.” John admitted.

  “You're a genius.” Eric's sarcasm was venomous. “A real artist at suicide.”

  “Relax, Eric.” Conrad was slowly walking out into the center of the warehouse.

  “Conrad . . .”

  “He's right. The government needs to work for us for a change. Not only do they owe us for what we did in the war,
but there is no limit to what we could do for them.” John was happy but shocked that he had won over Conrad so easily. “We wouldn't even have to do anything but hold natural disasters at bay or warn them of ones we couldn't control. How much would a few weeks warning of an earthquake be worth? Or a hurricane that hit but was much weaker than predicted?”

  “I thought you couldn't—”

  “Not by myself, but with a handful of experienced mages, things would be easy.” Conrad paused and looked into the middle distance, not seeing the warehouse but old dreams recovered.

  “Conrad.” Eric hesitated. “I will follow you and protect you. I've proven my loyalty. Just this once though, I have to protest. This . . . student is gonna get us killed, and you should walk away.”

  “I understand your concern, Eric.” Conrad's voice was soft and he paused before laughing softly. “It may not matter because young John here has to survive his duel anyways. If he gets killed, this won't matter.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” John’s mood was crushed from hopeful to realistic without good odds.

  “Sorry, but it’s why we came here in the first place. We got a message from that charming young trollop, and she has set a place, so it is up to you to set the time.”

  “Where?”

  “She was brazen enough to name a park in the city; she must think she will kill you without much fuss. What was the name, Eric?”

  “Winnimac Park.” Eric was consulting his smart phone for the exact details.

  “In the middle of the city?” John had expected some deserted location in the countryside. “Well, I guess we have to go with midnight then. No, that might be too early still. How about two in the morning?”

  “Damn night owls,” muttered Eric.

  “Then there is the detail of witnesses you want to invite. As your sponsor, I have to be there, but you have to name at least one witness.”

  John paused for a moment and smiled.

  “You aren't gonna like this one. Neither will she, but that just makes it better. I want Special Agent Harris there.”

  “Now you're just being an asshole!” Eric was shouting despite himself.

  “No, planning ahead. If this thing gets crazy and does damage to the park or property—”

  “We usually clean up after.” Conrad commented gently.

  “Yeah, but she is gonna see firsthand how dangerous mages going at it can be for the general public.” John, after all, had no one else to name, but he didn't want to admit that to anyone, especially himself.

  “You have proven reckless, and I think the FBI has a good idea what could happen.” Conrad said disapprovingly.

  “But we—” John started.

  “However!” said Conrad sternly. “It might be best to drive that point home. Knowing you, I'm sure you'll find a way. Shall we inform her?”

  “No. I should.”

  “Very well, then everything is settled.”

  “No, I wanted to make sure—”

  “Yes?”

  “I can use a gun?”

  “It might not do you much good if she sees it coming. But if you must, you must.”

  Chapter 60

  The phone only rang twice before she answered, even though it was eleven o'clock at night.

  “This is Agent Harris.”

  “I hope I didn't wake you up.”

  “Not at all, John. I was just reading your surveillance reports; you're getting boring and predictable.”

  “Allow me to change that. I need a witness for the duel.”

  “John, are you asking me on a date?”

  “I'm asking you to show up and witness the duel, perhaps to watch me die.”

  “How romantic.”

  “It's in three days at Winnimac Park, two in the morning.”

  “You know you are going to make a lot of mages mad by inviting me.”

  “Don't wear any surveillance devices or bring any cameras.”

  “Why are you asking me, John?”

  “Because if I survive, things are going to be different, and you need to understand.”

  “What, that you can bend reality at your whim or that you're a kid who doesn’t know the rules?”

  “No. You need to see what mages warring across the country will do.”

  “That will never happen. Your friends are all afraid of change and losing their traditions; Veronica has been the only one to stir the pot in a hundred years.”

  “That may be true, but I know things you don't; and things are about to change.” John hung up.

  Veronica was the only one to stir the pot in a hundred years? John contemplated it; she had set all of this in motion because . . . If the rumors were true; she was looking for a Book so she could teach Peter magic. She and Peter had killed and done who knows what else to get the last bit of knowledge and power left over from a shameful past. What had been their end goal? Walk off into the sunset and live happy quiet lives? John doubted he would ever know the truth, but he doubted it was anything but selfish and self-indulgent.

  John walked around the warehouse and started getting ready to go to bed, while he considered his own goals. They were selfish in their own way—he wanted these problems to go away and go back to living a normal life. Or as close to a normal life as he could at this point. He paused. Was that possible or even realistic? With a pang of sadness, he realized he had gone too far over the edge without realizing it. What kind of normal life could he live if he couldn't even explain his life to someone he cared about? Was he supposed to live a lie the rest of his life?

  As he brushed his teeth, he studied his reflection in the small bathroom mirror. He had changed. It wasn't in his appearance; it was in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. He couldn't point to when it had happened; he just knew that it had happened. He wasn't better than he was, he wasn't worse than he was, he was just different. He finished up and went to bed; he didn't think he would fall asleep easily, but he did.

  He dreamed.

  He dreamed of Radha.

  She was dancing in a sensuous slow way in front of large windows overlooking the city lights. She was backlit, so it was a moment or two before John realized she was nude, and it pleased him as much as it embarrassed him. Somehow, seeing her like this was a violation, but he wasn't about to stop watching. You, my dear reader, may judge the male mind harshly for that, but you also know it to be true either from experience or being honest with yourself.

  He could hear faint and distant music. It was more than exotic; it was almost alien: low piping tones mixed with a mournful violin and an instrument he couldn't identify. Radha knew the music though and abandoned herself to it. Her arms arced, and fingers moved through complicated positions in a quick-quick-slow rhythm. Radha’s hips shifted smoothly, her legs arcing high through the air, feet turning surely under her, making her spin so that even her braided hair was part of the dance. Her eyes were closed; her face a mask of serene concentration and every part of her was given to the dance.

  John had never seen anything like it. He was aroused, transfixed, and energized all at once. He could do nothing but watch and his previous shame for doing so melted away.

  In the distance, behind the city, lightning flashed—there was no thunder though—and it flashed again, blinding John. When his vision cleared, he saw the dance as a mage would.

  Her fingers traced interwoven lines of gold and red around dangerous broken patterns. As her arms arced past city lights, they traced encompassing circles and spheres. Her body positioned the axis and it spun, guided by her feet. Inside all this, there glittered the flurry of movement and rhythm of the dance and music. With a shock, he realized what he was seeing, and it was amazing in its complexity and simplicity.

  In the morning, John awoke with a start, with the dream and its pattern firmly planted in his mind, and a smile on his face.

  Chapter 61

  John had practiced with his new pattern as much as he could. He altered a clip of bullets with the fire pattern from his
grandfather’s ring—they would leave trails of fire in the air and start small fires when they hit, if he had done everything right. It was one thing to know guns killed; it was another thing to use them and know every time you picked one up you intended to kill. Ever since that night in the salt factory, John couldn't watch action movies, couldn't stand the images of lives cut short only to be followed by a well-rehearsed one liner. Life and death had taken on new meaning to him, and he was angry that in order to survive he had to kill.

  On the morning before the duel, John felt as ready as he could. Veronica would have something up her sleeve, and that was to be expected. The issue was experience—she had done this before, and John had not. Killing the rogue madman didn't count in his mind because Owen had been there. So, as John went about heating his breakfast in a small microwave, he was doubtful and frustrated. His last few months had not had many bright spots in them, and he doubted there were too many to come, even if he lived. He watched the cheese boil out of the folds of his breakfast burrito and decided that it looked disgusting and wasn't going to eat it. He called Davy at the gym to let him know he wasn't going to make it in to get his daily ass kicking. He bathed, pulled on some clothes, and went in search of real food.

  The diner was quiet and it was a contrast to the traffic outside. There is something about having breakfast while everyone rushes past you to work or their daily chores—not a lazy or mocking feeling, but a sense of curiosity. What lives do they live, what secrets do they keep, and what is kept from them? How did they end up where they are and are they happy? These were the things that John contemplated as he sipped his coffee and waited for the waitress.

  “Sorry I'm late,” said the tribesman, as he sat down across from John in the booth.

  John stared in shocked disbelief.

  Not only was the tribesman wearing a very expensive suit and tie, his braids were tied back into an almost respectable ponytail and he had trimmed his beard. John sat frozen as the man across from him scanned the menu. John could tell from his pattern that he was not hiding himself, but it was no less of a shock when the waitress asked him if he wanted coffee.