Inherited Magic

by Andrew Gordinier

  “I suppose you only have that dreadful tea in the yellow packets?” he said, with a British accent.

  “Sorry, but that's it.” The waitress was young and she found his accent charming.

  “Coffee, then, if you please. Are you ready to order, John?”

  “Y-yeah. I'll have a ham and cheese omelet.”

  “Pancakes, toast, fruit, or hash browns, sweetie?”

  “White toast please.” John didn't take his eyes off the man across from him.

  “And you?”

  “French toast and bacon, please.” He smiled at the waitress, and his teeth shone like jewels they were so white. She smiled back at him coyly and left.

  “What the hell?” It was all John could manage.

  “I thought we might have breakfast together.”

  John wanted to think of him as the Tribesman still but the shirt and tie were throwing him. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I'll tell you my name later. If you survive.” The waitress arrived and poured his coffee with a wink; he resumed once she had left. “We think you will survive, especially considering that shiny new trick you've got. It's impressive.”

  “Thank you.” John was feeling manipulated again; it was making him angry.

  “It's not in the Primer; where did you learn it?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “What breakfast is about?” How they fixed their food so fast confused John, but the waitress skillfully landed the plates with a smile and vanished.

  “No, watching me. And why I was the only one who could see you, anyway?”

  “You weren't meant to, and I did what I could to hide, but there were times when you just saw me. Not sure why.” He picked up the syrup and drowned his French toast in it.

  “Nice to know. Why watch me?”

  “You have a Primer. That makes you dangerous; we watched you to see if you were going to abuse the power it gave you.”

  “You could have tried helping me out from time to time.”

  “No. I couldn't. Besides, you did well on your own, even come up with a new trick we haven't seen before. How did you do it?”

  “Why do you care?”

  The tribesman-stranger-Englishmen studied John harshly before answering. “You don't get it, do you?”

  “As everyone is fond of pointing out, no.”

  “What do you know about prime numbers?”

  John responded with an irritated look as he chewed a mouthful of omelet.

  The stranger ignored John and launched into an explanation. “Numbers divisible only by one and themselves. They start off fairly common and get further apart and are harder and harder to find as they get larger and larger. In some circles, it’s very big news when a new one is found.” The stranger looked as if he had given this lecture a hundred times and was doing word for word from memory. “Patterns are the same way. There are only so many ways they hold together without collapsing. We don't know who put together the ones in the Primer, but with a few exceptions, they make up the totality of the working patterns we know.”

  “So all that lost knowledge everyone is going on about . . .”

  “Is lost to mages at large, unless you have a Primer, and then you know almost as much as there is to be known. The math of the patterns only works so many ways.” The stranger moved his bacon to the small ocean of syrup that his French toast had vanished from.

  “So that makes me special, even among mages.” John smiled.

  “It also makes you dangerous and a target for everyone else, but you're getting used to that, aren't you?”

  John forced himself to hold his smile firmly in place for a moment before responding. “You want to know how I came up with that pattern, in case I die tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “You had better hope I live then.”

  “John, be reasonable. These mages represent the rotting corpse of a shameful and dark part of human history. The idea of this duel is brutal and barbaric—”

  “Then stop it.”

  “That would . . . expose things we would rather not have in the open just yet. You could join us though; leave and never come back. They would think you ran away and who would blame you? No one would find you with us.”

  As the waitress cleared the dishes and refilled their coffee, John considered why he wasn't going to accept. It wasn't a matter of honor to him that he had to fight Veronica. He realized that, on some level, he was living out the formulaic story of a student avenging his teacher, but no one else was going to face Veronica. What else did he have? No family that he knew of. Radha had been clear she didn't want to see him. School had fallen by the wayside. His plans with Conrad were important but was that a burden he really wanted to carry?

  John looked out the window and asked; “Where would we go?”

  “I can't tell you unless you accept, but you could never come back. You would be hunted.”

  “Hunted.” John didn't like the word, especially when he was staring down the receiving end of it. He would be alive, perhaps even happy, but hunted and never to return. He looked out the window at the city as people and cars made their way past his small corner of it.

  Hunted.

  Never to return.

  They were ominous words, spoken with drama and theatrics during movie trailers, followed by explosions and death-defying stunts. They were not words that applied to his life. If they were, they would be nothing like the movies; they would be moments of quiet terror as he waited to be found. It would be him forever looking over his shoulder wondering whom to trust. He had a vision of himself in a crowded bar: alone despite the thronging humanity around him; afraid amidst the joy and friendship.

  “No. I have to stay. If not for Owen, then for myself.”

  “Good luck to you then. I hope to talk to you again.” The stranger got up and pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his dress slacks. “Breakfast is on me.” He carefully placed the bill on the table. The waitress would be thrilled with her tip but disappointed that she didn't get a phone number. John watched him as he walked out the door and down the street. It was shocking to see him not just vanish into thin air. On some level, John realized this moment would mark the point of no return; there was no changing his mind now.

  Chapter 62

  John had spent the afternoon napping off and on, eventually falling into a deep sleep in the evening, so his alarm clock was a shock to him when he woke up at ten o'clock. He tried not to think about the fact that it was dark, tried not to think about what the night would bring him and the fact that he was going to have to fight for his life. He tried to ignore that he was going to have to kill. You can only ignore so much though, and he felt grim as he bathed and dressed himself. He considered wearing a shirt and tie, but opted for jeans and a t-shirt. He wanted to be relaxed but couldn't with the .45 strapped to his hip.

  He didn't even try to eat. He found his last can of warm soda, used a pattern to cool it, and drank it slowly as he waited for Conrad and Eric. When they arrived, nothing much was said. They got into the limo, and Eric drove them across town. Conrad refrained from drinking.

  When they were almost there, John looked at Conrad and decided there was no point in keeping secrets.

  “If I lose—”

  “You'll do fine.”

  “Listen. If I lose, there is a Primer hidden behind the fridge in the warehouse.”

  “What?”

  “There's a—”

  “I get it.” Conrad sat forward in his seat. “Where the hell did you get a Primer?”

  “It was my father’s. I opened it, and that's what started this nightmare.”

  “Did Owen know?”

  “I never told him. I tried . . .”

  “And couldn't.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The fact that you can talk about it now tells me you figured out how they open to the rest of the pages.”

  “Yeah, have you ever seen one?”

  “No. Owen and I searche
d and found fragments . . .but never a complete one.”

  “If she kills me. Go get mine. Don't let it fall into the wrong hands.” John felt overly dramatic saying that.

  “I will.”

  The limo came to a stop, and they were there.

  Chapter 63

  Everyone was gathered at the west side of the park under a street light. There were several mages from the conclave that John recognized; one was still wearing his sunglasses. The Tribesman-Englishman was standing behind them, unseen, with a fast food bag that had a smiling hot dog on it. Agent Harris was standing a safe distance from the small group, dressed in her sharpest FBI suit, sipping coffee. As John walked towards them, he saw Veronica approaching from the opposite direction; she was dressed in all white except for a purple scarf. She was carrying a long, slightly curved leather sheath; it fell somewhere between too small to be a sword and too big for anything else.

  The guy with the sunglasses stepped forward and signaled for Veronica and John to approach. “I and the other delegates have secured the park; there are no bystanders to hurt. We've done our best to shield the perimeter so most spells won't get through and people won't wander in by accident. Having said that, neither of you may leave the park or it will be seen as surrender, and you will be killed. Other than that, once the duel starts, it is to the death, for control of Chicago territory and the territories amassed by Veronica. There are no other rules. Do either of you have anything to say?”

  “No.” John tried to sound brave.

  “I do.” Veronica could have been flirting in a bar.

  “Yes?” Asked Shades as John was starting to think of him.

  “Can I piss on his corpse when we're done?”

  Shades showed no sign of amusement or disgust with Veronica. “We have marked out your starting points in the park according to the old ways. Once you hear the gunshot, you may begin.”

  They walked into the park in silence. There were two circles chalked into the grass in the rough middle of the lightly wooded park. They faced each other in the gloom of the city lights. There were shadows, but nothing too dark and nothing deep enough to hide in. The baseball diamond and tennis courts seemed like something left behind and forgotten in the gloom. John made a mental note of their locations; he could use a pattern on the fence and make the wire razor sharp.

  John counted four breaths before the gun sounded.

  In a flash, Veronica had her blade out and rushed John. The only thing that stopped her from hacking his head off on her first swing was his ability to read the pattern as she cast it. He jumped backwards, and she pushed her attack. She didn't swing wildly; she moved with practiced skill, making strikes and lunges that were accelerated by magic. Even though John saw them coming, they were hard to dodge, and she didn't give John a chance to get his gun out or focus on a pattern. It was the boxing ring all over again, and he was quickly getting pushed backwards.

  When Veronica pulled back from a lunge, she left herself open, and John moved in close to her without the aid of magic and started throwing punches at her mid-section. He was pleased when he felt his fists connect with her ribs. Veronica swore loudly and pulled her arms into herself defensively and spun. John had to jump back to dodge the gleaming blade. He landed badly and stumbled. Veronica leaped in with a blow meant to take John's head. John let himself fall away from the blade and out of reflex brought up his left arm to block the attack. He survived, but her blade sliced through his arm’s flesh and dragged its tip down the bone for several inches. Somehow, the blinding pain gave John the clarity to make a pattern. He hit her square in the chest with enough raw force to throw her back past her starting circle. He had to give her credit that she landed on her feet, even though she did it shakily. It gave John a chance to regain his footing and draw his pistol.

  This, my dear readers, is where we joined this story already in progress.

  She was far enough away that John was able to get a shot off as she ran at him. He missed by a mile, but the pattern on the bullet worked. It worked far too well. What was supposed to be a trail of fire was a geyser of flame that chased the bullet down range like a meteor. It crossed Veronica's path and forced her to pause, either from shock or fear of being scorched. When the bullet hit a tree at the edge of the park, the tree exploded into burning splinters that arced out gently into the air. John did not have time to contemplate what he had done wrong to overpower the bullets because Veronica was coming at him again.

  This time, she had leaped into the air and was coming at him like something out of a bad ninja anime. She had sped herself up, so she was falling faster, but John had time to move under her with the help of a pattern, so he was behind her when she landed. She was close enough that John was able to get a better bead on her and fired twice. The combined explosions were huge, and John was close enough that he felt the heat wash over him. Yet running out of the flames came Veronica. Her white clothes weren't even dusty. John used a pattern of his own to jump straight up forty feet and avoided her attack. Two could play this anime game. As he fell, he fired two more times. The first shot was too far behind her, but the second one exploded close enough that it threw her to the side like a broken toy.

  John landed well but took no joy in it. Veronica was getting up off the ground, and he could see small spatters of blood and dirt ruining her perfect white outfit. He raised his gun, and she pointed at him with an empty hand. John watched the pattern form and threw together a shield to protect himself. Electricity arced from her fingertips and blasted a scorched path between the two of them. John’s shield held, and he could smell the ozone as the air crackled.

  Veronica smiled when she saw he was still standing. John responded by superheating the air around her as fast as he could. She jumped clear as the air burst into flame with a flash and a dull roar. She had not escaped totally unscathed. Her hair was burnt in places and her scarf was burning at one end. She ignored it and tried to freeze John’s feet to the ground. He dodged easily enough by jumping again.

  John was getting tired; he had also lost a lot of blood. With a severely wounded arm, he wouldn't stand a chance if she got in close again, and she was sure to try that again soon. So it was time to try something different while he still had a chance.

  When he landed, John threw a fireball at her that was big enough to wipe out a large building. She shielded herself and started to advance. John took careful aim and fired a single shot at her. She shielded herself from the bullet and the explosion; she was running now, thinking he was running out of tricks. John concentrated, and fired at the same time he cast the pattern he had learned in his dreams. He sent it at Veronica on the bullet that was suddenly just a bullet.

  The pattern negated the magic he had imprinted on the bullet and rode it all the way to Veronica, where it canceled the shield she created. The bullet hit her slightly off center in the chest and spun her violently. John waited, but she didn't get up, and he was out of ammo.

  John walked slowly to where she had fallen, his wounded arm hanging limply at his side. Even covered in blood, sweat, and mud, she was pretty. He felt bad for her, but not stupid; he kicked her knife out of arm’s reach. He could tell by her pattern that she was dying; it would only be few more heartbeats.

  He sat down next her. She gasped and gurgled, choking on the blood flooding her lungs. She tried to get up, but didn't have the strength. She locked eyes with him, her blue eyes were wide and she blinked rapidly before looking away. John could not tell if it was hatred or desperation that he saw there. He only knew that he felt regret. She coughed up more blood and her eyes clenched shut in agony.

  John wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. Nor was there much time to say it. Veronica fought death to the last, but it came quickly for her, without shame or dignity.

  Chapter 64

  Quickly enough, the others came into the park and stood around for a moment saying nothing. They kept their own thoughts silent and tried to add dignity to the raw and cruel thin
g they had sanctioned that night. It was Eric that moved forward and looked at John’s wounds, declaring he would need medical help. Agent Harris said she would handle it and walked a short distance away as she dialed her cell phone. The other mages did their best to repair the park, but there was no growing the grass or tree overnight. The children in the morning would wonder about the bare spots on the ground and the missing tree, but nothing would come of it.

  Eric and Conrad helped John to the parking lot where an unmarked van soon arrived. The doors opened, and two people in medical scrubs got out and started tending to John. They insisted he needed surgery. Conrad told them if they tried to take John anywhere, he would melt the van with them inside it. Agent Harris told them to do what they could and do it fast. They gave John a shot for the pain and soon everything was lost in a hazy fog.

  He awoke with a headache, looking at the ceiling of a hotel room. He sat up slowly and found his left arm in a sling.

  “How do you feel?” Eric was in an uncomfortable looking chair, set in one corner, with an e-reader in his hand.

  “Ugh.” Was all John could manage. “How long was I out?”

  “Not as long as you would think—an hour or two. Whoever your FBI girlfriend called knew what they were doing when they patched you up.” Eric got up and walked over to John, checking his bandages. “I could've kept you alive, but they saved your arm.”

  “You're a nurse?” John's shirt hung off him in rags, and he was very aware that he smelled of sweat, blood, and a strange hospital odor. In short, he smelled bad and knew it.

  “No, I was a combat medic.”

  “I had no idea. Can you take me back to the warehouse? I need a shower and sleep.”

  “You're staying here now that it's over. No point in hiding anymore. Conrad said he would cover the cost, as long as you need.”

  “Oh.” John didn't know what to say; he was still foggy from the drugs.