by T. S. Mann
Then, with a huge grin on her face, she jerked up her free hand and balled it into a tight fist.
“Rack!” she said in a sharp, commanding tone.
Luke gave a startled yelp as some invisible force suddenly grabbed his ankles and yanked him feet-first towards Lindsay’s desk. The chains on his hands held fast, however, pulling them up over his head so that he was stretched out tautly on the ground. He yelled in pain as his shoulders nearly dislocated, and his body was extended exactly like a prisoner tortured on the rack save that there was no visible rack at all, just magic.
Lindsay walked slowly over and knelt beside him. While the position was extremely uncomfortable, he wasn’t being pulled any harder, but he was completely exposed to whatever his captor had planned. Lindsay held up the paintbrush and looked at it with a strange fascination.
“And you know what, Luke?” she said. “I kept my sense of humor too!”
“Lindsay, just wait a minute, okay?” Luke’s voice cracked in terror. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, just, just stop. Let’s ... let’s just talk about it, okay?”
She reached over with her other hand and put the index finger over his lips.
“Shhh. I have just three things to say to you.”
She lay down flat on the floor next to him, propping herself up with an elbow. Slowly, she reached out with the paintbrush in her other hand and began tracing a lazy circle around his navel. The sensation was not unpleasant, but Luke whimpered anyway. What was she doing? And how long before the soft tickling turned into some kind of agony?
She spoke barely above a whisper. “Kitchy...”
The paintbrush moved slowly up the center of Luke’s abdomen and then made a gentle figure-eight over his chest, easing the medallion aside as it went.
"Kitchy ..."
Then, she lifted the brush up, and with a playful flick, touched it to the tip of Luke’s nose. He snorted and shook his head to suppress the urge to sneeze.
“Koo.”
And with that, Lindsay abruptly rose and headed straight for the door, casually tossing the paintbrush onto the desk as she passed by. At the door, she turned back to Luke, who watched her in confusion even as he struggled with his uncomfortable position.
“I’m going out to run some errands now, Luke. I should be back in three or four hours.” She examined her fingernails for a moment. “Better make that five. I think I might stop off for a manicure. Have fun.”
She cheerily waved goodbye, opened the door and headed up the stairs on the other side. The door closed itself behind her.
Luke let out a long breath, wondering what the hell all that had been about. He’d been expecting pain. Hell, at this point, he wouldn't be surprised to see an alien facehugger explode out of his chest, summoned by whatever Lindsay had been doing. Granted, he might spend the next few hours with his arms stretched out over his head – a stress position, they called it on the Internet – but it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared.
Then, suddenly, he flinched and made a loud gasp of surprise as something lightly skittered across his belly. He raised his head in alarm to see what was there. Nothing. A few seconds later, he felt the same sensation on the sole of his left foot.
He shook it as vigorously as he was able given his confinement, but light ticklish sensation continued. Minutes later, he was writhing in discomfort as invisible brushes and fingers and perhaps even feathers danced across his ribs, under his chin and behind his knees, causing him to snicker uncontrollably.
“Oh, you have ... ah ... gahaha ... got to be ... f-f-fucking kidding me!!!”
Within a few more minutes, even that level of speech was impossible, as every inch of his body was subjected to the same relentless stimulation that made him laugh until he cried. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just an overwhelming stimulation that blotted out every thought except the need to giggle and howl and twitch and twist in a futile response to sensations that existed only in his mind.
And every time he thought the intensity of those sensations had reached its peak, he was proven wrong. Soon, he began to receive sensory data from parts of his body that he knew should be immune to tickling. Far up his nostrils. His eyelids. His fingernails. His hair. At one point, he was convinced that a feather had somehow penetrated inside his chest and was tickling his left lung. He brayed even louder in amusement at such an impossibility.
After twenty minutes, a momentary flash of humiliation pierced the haze of tickling, as he felt a soggy warmth spread through his boxers and he realized that he had lost control of his bladder. When he lost control of his bowels some forty-five minutes later, he barely even realized it.
By that time, he had almost stopped laughing out loud; his throat was completely hoarse, and his body could manage nothing more than continuous rasping wheezes. But he still laughed uproariously in his mind, and the only coherent thought that could pierce the deafening sound of his own internal hysteria was Lindsay’s parting shot, her sadistic hint as to how long this torture might last.
“Five hours,” she’d said.
The idea that he could possibly last that long before having a heart attack or a stroke made him laugh even harder.
CHAPTER 7:
HIGHER EDUCATION
1 November 2010
Doc’s House
Matt awoke from the best sleep he’d had in a while to sunlight streaming through a window behind his bed. He sat up and stretched and then had a brief flash of panic as he remembered the night before and realized it was not a bad dream. He also had a brief instant of worry about his brother.
But then a strange sense of calm descended over him – Doc and Electra were working on it, and he felt certain that they were better equipped to help Luke than he was. He glanced around the room. On the night stand next to him was a small electric clock that read 9:52 a.m. It was Saturday, November 1st. Halloween was finally over.
He got out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went into the bathroom. There were fresh towels and toiletries, and he realized that he stank of sweat, gas fumes, fear, and aborted sex, so he went for the shower. The bathroom was much nicer than the one at his old apartment, complete with a massaging shower head with an improbable number of settings. Back home, he felt lucky when he just got hot water. He let the shower pulsate away all the sore muscles from the previous night’s activities.
Back in the bedroom, he discovered that his clothes were gone, including Luke’s coat, replaced with several bags on the dresser along with a handwritten note.
Come on downstairs
when you get dressed.
-- Doc
Looking through the bags, he found new clothes, all in his size and all name brands: Old Navy, American Eagle, A&F. It was the sort of stuff that Tommy Romero would have happily flashed around but that Matt’s mom would never have been able to afford on her meager salary.
He hesitated to pull the tags off, but eventually decided that it would just be one more thing for which he would owe his savior. He did make a point of limiting his selection to boxers, jeans, socks, sneakers and the cheapest T-shirt in the collection. Even then, he estimated that he was wearing well over $200 in clothing.
Downstairs, he found Doc in the kitchen. The older man was cross-legged on the floor, waving his hands over Luke’s trench coat while muttering some unintelligible incantation. The table and chairs had been moved off to the side, and Electra was sitting in one of them eating what looked to be scrambled eggs and bacon. At the sight, Matt’s stomach growled; he felt like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Electra was still in her white leather biker outfit, which she apparently never removed. Matt noticed his own clothes on the floor were divided into two piles, with his Patriots jersey on Doc’s left and everything else on his right. He coughed respectfully. Doc ignored him, but Electra spoke without looking up from her breakfast.
“Never interrupt someone when they’re working magic. Occasionally, that makes them explode.”
“Sorry
.” Matt took a step back nervously.
Doc completed whatever he was doing and looked up at the boy.
“For the record, I haven’t made anything explode in years. Well, at least not without intending to.”
He looked Matt up and down. “Are the clothes alright? I have no idea what is fashionable to your age group, but I could guess the right size, and that seems to be the sort of stuff the students in my classroom are wearing.”
“No, they’re great. Actually, they’re a lot more expensive than I’m used to, but I’ll repay you whenever I ....”
Doc interrupted him with a waving hand. “Oh, stop. It’s just money.”
“No, I mean it ....”
“So do I. Money literally means nothing to me. It is trivially simple to become wealthy if you’re attuned to the right Axioms. So simple, in fact, that most of us who do make ourselves rich get bored with it rather quickly and eventually downsize just for convenience. I used to live in a mansion up on Beacon Hill, but I got lonely in a house with eight empty bedrooms, so I got a smaller place closer to campus. I promise you, the clothes are not even a blip on in my financial radar screen.”
He patted his hand on the jersey. “Now this, on the other hand, really is valuable. The rest of your stuff doesn’t matter – in fact, I’d recommend burning it to eliminate any sympathetic connections – but hang onto the jersey no matter what.”
Doc tossed the jersey to Matt, who examined it with curiosity. “What’s so special about this? Other than Tom Brady’s number on the back?”
Doc leaned back on his hands.
“Well, it’s magical talisman, that’s what. When someone goes strange, it’s very common for some personal item of great significance to become part of the Insight itself and be transformed into a magical item. That jersey is now a part of you, a physical symbol of your magical nature. You can do magic without it, but you’ll find it’s a lot easier with it. So much so, in fact, that some kinds of magic will just happen for you almost automatically.”
Matt looked down at the jersey. He had a strange sense of satisfaction that his lucky jersey was literally magical now.
“Cool. What does it do?”
“I haven’t a clue. That type of analysis is outside my field of expertise. I can tell you that, like most talismans, it’s nearly indestructible, at least against non-magical sources of damage. It won’t stain or get dirty or ever start to smell no matter how long you wear it. It won’t burn, cut, tear, or stretch, and it will resize itself to fit any Stranger who puts it on. It’s probably tough enough to deflect any non-magical knife or even a bullet, though in the latter case, the impact would still probably knock you out, so don’t go wandering into any gunfights. Its other, more unique properties we’ll have to figure out later.”
Matt smiled and pulled the jersey over his head, as Doc continued. “Of course, there is a downside.”
Matt froze just as his face poked through the top.
“Oh, nothing inherently dangerous. The jersey was enchanted as a direct result of your uncontrolled magic, which means it is sympathetically connected to you. If someone else gets hold of it, he can potentially gain great power over you, so whenever you aren’t wearing it, make sure you keep it in a safe place.”
“Got it.” He pulled the jersey the rest of the way over his head. “Is Luke’s coat a talisman, too?”
Doc bent over the coat again to examine it. “It is. A powerful one, too. Even more so than yours, in fact.”
“Really? Why?”
Doc shrugged. “Who knows? Raw magic is unpredictable. Maybe because it’s a larger item so it can hold more juice. Maybe your brother’s emotional connection to it was stronger in some way than your own connection to the shirt.” He looked straight at Matt. “Maybe your brother is just more powerful than you are.”
If he was expecting jealousy or some similar response, he was denied. Matt just shrugged.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Luke was always into the spooky stuff. I’d expect him to take to all this better than me.” He looked back down at the coat. “Hey, if these things have sympathetic ... whatever … with us, can you use the coat to find Luke?”
Electra rather noisily pushed her plate away and wiped her face with a napkin. “That was what he was doing when you interrupted, actually.”
Doc made a sour expression.
“Ignore her, Matthew. Electra feasts on rudeness. I was trying to find Luke through his connection to the coat but haven’t succeeded. There are ways to conceal such sympathetic connections. I think Lindsay has used one to prevent us from tracking them. I’m sure it occurred to her that we might have access to some of Luke’s personal effects.”
He went to get up but grimaced as there was a noticeable twinge in his back. Matt moved over and helped the older man up. “Ah, thank you,” he said as he stretched and rubbed his back. Electra grew annoyed.
“Honestly,” she said irritably, “When are you going to do something about that? You’re a fourth-level adept at biotic magic. There is simply no reason for you to suffer back pain!”
The old man sniffed disdainfully.
“I earned my bad back the hard way, by living a long and productive life. If I surrender my humanity, it will be for a reward greater than just being free of minor aches and pains. That’s why God made chiropractors. Now if you’re done hectoring us, perhaps you could get back to searching for our nephilim, eh?”
He picked up Luke’s coat and held it out towards Electra.
“Start with the College. I called Bryce and Widget this morning and they’re pursuing some of their own leads. They may also have better luck with the coat than I did. Then, get back with Mr. Ratcliffe and some of the others in the occult community who might be inclined to help us. They might have sensed something that eluded the Strangers. Also, ask Bryce if there are any of the Commies that he thinks might be trustworthy. Well, tolerably untrustworthy, I suppose.”
She glanced over at Matt and then back again to Doc. “You sure you don’t need me to stick around for a bit? I thought you might want me here when you talk to the kid.”
“I think I can manage, thank you.”
She sighed and took the coat. “Whatever. I’ll call if I find anything.”
With that, Electra stalked out of the kitchen. When he heard the front door close, Matt turned to Ellington.
“No offense, but just between us, is there ever a time when she’s not a bitch?”
Doc grimaced slightly at the insult but not enough to chastise the boy. Electra was being unusually difficult today.
“Vanishingly few, I’m afraid. Her attitude is ... a facade that she wears. There’s a much more approachable person underneath it, but I rarely see that side of her anymore. I sometimes fear the facade is all that’s left.”
He walked over to the counter, took two plates from a cabinet and began loading eggs, bacon, and toast onto one.
“Help yourself. There’s juice and milk in the refrigerator. Glasses are to the left of the stove.”
As he fixed a plate for himself, Matt continued asking questions. “What was she talking about? Am I in trouble? Or ... more trouble, I guess?”
“Possibly. There have been some ... developments.”
Doc turned back towards the table with a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other when he remembered the chairs and table were still out of position. He stamped his foot twice and said “Reset.”
In response, the kitchen furnishings slid on their own back into the same position from the previous night. The sudden movement startled Matt for a second, but then, he just shook his head.
“When do I learn to do stuff like that?”
“After breakfast. That ties in with those developments I mentioned. Teaching you basic magical self-defense has become a priority.”
Matt frowned. “That bad, huh?”
The boy was relaxed, bordering on blasé, which was just the way Doc wanted him. While Matt had slept, he’d quietly cast a
few more psychic spells to regulate the boy’s emotional responses – to reduce his fear and anxiety, to suppress his concerns about his brother, to make him more trusting of Doc, and to instill an eager curiosity about studying magic – all because he didn’t want the boy going off half-cocked and completely unprepared. But however necessary he thought such actions were, he still felt somewhat guilty about outright manipulation.
It didn’t improve matters when he and Electra nearly got into a shouting match over it, but it was his own fault for telling her in the first place. He was painfully aware of her attitude towards such manipulations for even the noblest of purposes.
Besides, even discounting the ethical implications, Matt did have a strong potential for psychic magic, and Doc was not currently at the top of his game. A misstep could lead to Matt breaking his conditioning too soon, resulting in a total loss of trust. Accordingly, Doc decided that, to the extent that it was practical, he would stick with honesty.
“Last night, while searching for your brother, Electra had a confrontation with a group of Strangers who may present a problem for us.”
“More nephilim?”
“Quite the opposite. You recall that earlier I mentioned the Church of the Unity Blade? Imagine the Mormons but highly aggressive and armed with magical swords.”
Matt’s face registered his disbelief. “Magical Mormons? The Mormons have supernatural powers now?”
“No! ... Well, some of them, maybe, but I was being flippant. Still, most Blade members you encounter will look a lot like the stereotype of Mormon missionaries. Crisp white shirts with plain black suits and ties ... and very sharp swords. Their actual religious views, as far as I can tell, are closer to Manichaeism than any modern religion.”
For just a second, the question “what is Manichaeism?” danced through Matt’s head. Then, just as he realized he didn’t know the word, a concise answer magically presented itself: “an ancient religious philosophy that viewed the world as a struggle between forces of light and dark.”
Matt smiled inwardly. Luke was always the smart one, but he was beginning to enjoy the pleasures of learning, even if only through magical means. Pity he hadn’t been attuned to the Bodhisattva when he was taking Algebra II; he could have avoided summer school.
