by Ann Macela
Irenee’s father sat sideways on the couch to face him. “I need to lay some groundwork, and I can’t tell this without it sounding like a lecture, so bear with me, please. Our story starts long ago. In ancient, prehistoric times, a few humans developed the ability to harness their internal energy and use spells and enchantments to make their lives and their everyday jobs better and easier. In other words, they could work magic. It helped immensely in their survival.”
Jim felt his eyes squint and his chin lower, but he managed to keep his lips together. Man, just when he thought he’d seen and heard it all. Magic?
“These people found others like themselves,” Sabel continued, “and they married and produced offspring, who turned out to have the same sorts of innate gifts. Sometimes the children’s talents matched those of their parents, sometimes not. When this ‘inheritance’ became clear, they began to keep detailed family histories. Today we’re their descendants. In addition to living in the world like normal people, we also exist quietly unto ourselves. We call ourselves ‘practitioners’ because we have to learn and practice our skills. We use our powers to make our livings and to protect ourselves. Other than using our talents, we live ordinary lives with ordinary lifespans. We’re as human as anybody else.”
“Exactly what do you do with these ‘magic’ abilities?” Jim asked, intrigued and puzzled despite his usual skepticism about all outrageous claims. He was also more than a little irritated. Were these people weirdos or what? What had he gotten himself into?
“We use our magic in our occupations.” Sabel shrugged. “After all, everybody has to make a living. Our ‘talents’ are specific to each individual job. Accountants can cast spells to help them keep financial books, engineers figure out how to put something together the best way, mechanics use them to decide how to fix a car, and so forth. Fergus was a veterinarian before he retired, Irenee is an event organizer, and I’m an economist, for example. Think of those people—musical prodigies, ‘born’ engineers, or whatever—who are so good at what they do, but you have no idea how they do it.”
Sabel’s explanation made a bizarre kind of sense, but Jim stopped himself from pursuing the ideas. He needed to concentrate on his main mission. “Okay, so what? I don’t care if you use magic or voodoo or fairy dust to do your jobs. What does it have to do with Alton Finster? What did you”—Jim pointed at Irenee—“take out of his safe?”
Irenee didn’t answer. Whipple took up the tale instead. “Some of us have additional, more esoteric talents. We’re charged by our governing bodies with maintaining our ethics and rules—we’re the police officers, basically. A few of us have the power to share magical energy, transfer it from one person to another, multiply it so several people can use it at once. Those we term ‘Defenders.’ A very small number of Defenders have an extremely rare talent. We can use the offensive and defensive kinds of spells you find in fantasy games, movies, and novels—fireballs, lightning bolts, and the like. Most important of all our gifts, we ‘Swords’ have the power to destroy items of evil magic.”
“Evil magic?” Jim couldn’t help sneering. “Oh, come on. You expect me to believe this far-fetched story? I mean, I could see where somebody might think an expert could be using magic if living in a primitive society, but your explanation puts us into fantasy movies and games. Next, you’ll have a dragon in the basement”
“No, no dragon,” Whipple said with a chuckle before he frowned. “There are, however, bad practitioners as well as good—in the ethical and moral senses, I mean. In the past the bad ones created items to enhance their powers, to make evil deeds and their influence greater and more successful.”
Jim sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. The situation was getting more unbelievable by the minute. “I repeat, what does any of this have to do with me and Finster?”
“Alton Finster and his family, including Bruce Ubell, are practitioners,” Whipple stated with absolutely no humor in his voice or expression. “Alton had possession of one of these evil items, an extremely powerful ancient crystal. Every practitioner takes an oath to abide by our code of ethics, part of which obliges us to turn over to the Defenders all evil artifacts we may find. The oath includes an agreement that Defenders can at any time confiscate such items we may possess—with or without our consent.”
He pointed at the other two. “Irenee and I are both Swords. Hugh is a Defender. On Saturday night, Irenee confiscated Alton’s piece of an item called the Cataclysm Stone and a book connected to it. You saw her take them out of Finster’s safe. Early Sunday morning, we destroyed the crystal. An evil item is linked psychically to the person who possesses it, and when the item disintegrates, the process affects the possessor. The destruction of his Stone threw Finster into a coma. There’s more, but are you with us so far?”
Jim glared at Whipple. What a load of crap. What world did these people live in? He was sitting with a bunch of loonies.
Except...
He could feel his brain beginning to churn. Feel the synapses start firing. Feel facts and ideas coming together in the back of his mind until they practically exploded into an enormous hunch. Whipple was telling the God’s honest truth and had The Answers. Closing his eyes, he laced his hands together on his head to keep his skull from cracking with the force of the hunch. A mushroom cloud rising above him wouldn’t have surprised him.
He opened his eyes and looked around at the three who were studying him closely. Irenee’s eyes were round, and her lips formed an O, and the men were stoic. He lowered his hands and took a deep breath. Slow down. Take the new info logically and in order. “Personally, I’d like some proof about this magic business.”
“Big proof or little proof?” Sabel asked. “Here’s little—a lightball.”
Swirling with rainbow colors, a glowing, basketball-sized sphere floated suddenly in the air. Jim felt his eyes bugging out. The ball disappeared.
“Here’s a medium illusion—your dragon,” Whipple said, and, without a sound or flash, a big white lizard with furled wings and gray eyes was sitting in his chair. The dragon grinned at Jim for a second, then Whipple was there, also grinning.
Holy shit! Jim managed to keep his seat and close his mouth only by sheer force of will. He looked at Irenee and had to clear his throat before he could ask, “What about you?”
“Well, my best magic is a big proof, and here is not the place to do it. How about this?” She waved her hand at herself. “What do you see?”
She began to glow again, and he squinted to focus better. “The shape of a big cat outlines your body. It’s outlined in a dark red, like your hair. It’s like you have a transparent mask on too.”
She grimaced, waved her hand again. “Now?”
“The cat is coming into focus, but I can still see you through it.” He blinked several times. The special effects did not go away.
“That’s really puzzling.” Sabel cocked his head from side to side. “I can see only your panther.”
“It’s frustrating.” Irenee ran her hand through her hair, and the panther outline disappeared. “What’s the matter with my spells?”
“Not something we should worry about at the moment,” Whipple said with a small, secretive smile. “I have an idea we’ll discuss later. Tylan, do you believe us, or do you want more proof?”
Yeah, Jim wanted a hell of a lot more. Magic or not, however, what counted was his mission. What should he be asking? He let his hunch guide him. “Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument, you three are what you say you are—these practitioners. What I really want is more info about Finster and his activities. Yes, we’re investigating him. I fully expect to bring him to justice for a number of criminal acts—once he wakes up.”
“You may have some unexpected problems. We have reason to believe there’s another piece of the Cataclysm Stone, and it’s being manipulated by another person.”
Jim felt his hunch mechanism fire up again and supply the answer. “Bruce Ubell.” As he said the name, the pie
ces fell into place and locked like a jigsaw puzzle. By himself, Finster couldn’t do all the things they thought he had—he would have to be in two places at once to do so. Ubell had been so far in the background that few had noticed him.
A mental vision formed of the two cousins standing by the wall at the gala. The shiver caused by one’s glance made a reappearance now, running up and down his backbone. His hunch said the surveyor hadn’t been Finster. Ubell’s gaze had been the one setting off his instincts. Ubell had been the hunter looking for prey or the sentry searching for the enemy.
“Our conclusions agree with yours,” Whipple, said.
Whether he believed in their magic hocus-pocus or not—and he wasn’t ready to agree to their claim yet—Jim knew he would be a fool to discount the worth of the inside information these practitioners seemed to have. Any help in bringing down Finster, Ubell, and their organization was welcome. “Okay, what does this ‘Cataclysm Stone’ do? Where is it? How does Ubell use it? What for?”
“When you’re casting a spell,” Sabel explained, “magical items like crystals can help focus your energy and result in a stronger incantation and more powerful results. Usually your inborn talents confer on you the abilities connected with your profession. The most powerful and ancient items—and there are a few ‘good’ items also, by the way—not only make your spells incredibly effective, they can also give you powers not related to your talents. For example, it might let you cast a lightning bolt, a spell your natural talents don’t include.”
Whipple took up the tale. “Let’s say Ubell wants to get a shipment of drugs through Customs. His Stone could help him cast spells affecting the inspectors so they either find nothing or don’t even look. With the power of his item, he could cast these spells from far away”
“Or,” Irenee said, “it could enchant his buyers to give him more money”
“Or,” Sabel added, “influence a judge or jury in his favor.”
“The Stone has that kind of power?” Jim asked. Whoa. If, and it was still a big if, this kind of magic actually existed, he had to reassess the situation. The task force might have some real problems.
“Yes,” Sabel answered. “You may have a more immediate difficulty. If I may ask, was the information you took from those flash drives financial?”
“Yeah, it was. Extensive accounting records, from what the bean counters are saying.”
“The Finsters are a rare family where the inherited talents stayed in one area—numbers, accounting, and finance,” Sabel went on. “Both Alton and Ubell are CPAs and have MBAs. Under ordinary circumstances, their non-magic skill to manipulate the books would make them extremely difficult to audit. With the Cataclysm Stone enhancing their inherent powers, it might be impossible to find enough illegal manipulations or discrepancies in the accounts to stand up in a court of law. Even an auditor practitioner would have only a small chance of negating the spells.”
“Then we need to get our hands on his Stone,” Jim said. “If we have it, he can’t use it, right?”
“There we have a predicament,” Whipple, admitted with a grimace. “We don’t know exactly where it is. We think it’s in the Finster mansion and shielded by very powerful spells. Finding it will take a team of experts and be extremely dangerous.”
“Oh, great.” Jim sat forward and rubbed his hands over his face. This mess was giving him a headache.
“There’s more we need to discuss, but it’s almost six thirty.” Whipple rose. “Before we go farther, I have an idea I’d like to check out, and I need Hugh’s help to do so. Why don’t you and Irenee have some dinner, and come back here in about an hour and a half? I should have some answers by that time.”
Jim looked over at Irenee. She was frowning at Whipple, and he thought she might refuse.
“Yes, go on, my dear,” her father said. “You really need to replenish your energy.”
“But...” Irenee glanced from Whipple to her father and finally to Jim, who stood.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to let the men out of his sight. On the other hand, having dinner with her sounded like a great idea. He’d have her to himself—to question, of course. His middle gave a little flutter. See, his stomach liked the prospect of food, too. “Works for me. How’s the food in the restaurant here?”
She sighed. “It’s excellent. Let me tell Fergus something first.” She stood, walked over to Whipple, and when he bent down, whispered something in his ear.
“You don’t say. How intriguing,” the large man said with a smile that turned into a grin.
“Come on,” she said to Jim and started for the door.
He followed her out, not even trying to repress his satisfaction. Alone at last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You hardly said a word in there,” Jim remarked on the elevator.
Irenee shot him a glance. “Fergus and Dad explain things better than I do.” She wasn’t about to tell him Fergus had suggested her silence and total concentration on him and his reactions. Why she should see something they wouldn’t was a mystery, but she hadn’t minded. He was nice to look at, and his responses to their explanations had been fascinating—from disbelief to almost grudging acceptance.
She’d almost fainted, however, when he had closed his eyes and put his hands on his head, and he glowed—blue! Whatever was going on was way beyond her experience. She’d told Fergus. Let him figure it out.
She had enough on her mind in the person of Jim Tylan. Merely his nearness in these close confines was enough to tighten all her muscles and cause her center to jump around. Was her reaction fight-or-flight ... or something else?
Once seated in a quiet and almost private corner of the restaurant, Irenee leaned back in her chair and tried to relax. Her growling stomach told her how right her father was: she wasn’t totally back to her normal energy levels. When the waiter came, she said, “My usual.”
Jim looked up from his menu and asked, “What’s your usual?”
“A filet mignon, rare, with baked potato, vegetable, salad, and dessert.”
“Sounds good,” he said, handing the waiter his menu. “Make it two.”
They both declined wine. She was not about to befuddle her mind while in his company, and he gave every indication of being “on duty.”
“Oh, also, put our dinners on Fergus Whipple’s tab, please,” she added to the waiter. When Jim raised his eyebrows at her, she shrugged and grinned. “Dinner was his idea, after all.”
“Okay,” he said, but she couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not.
“You’re not a member, so your money’s no good here,” she added.
“Okay,” he repeated, glanced around, leaned a little closer to her, and whispered, “So, everybody here is a ‘practitioner’? The diners? The waiters? They can all cast spells?”
“Yes, everybody—to varying degrees of power.” She paused and studied him before saying, “You don’t completely believe our story, do you?”
His expression—raised eyebrows, squinting eyes, cynical smile—proclaimed his skepticism. He played with his silverware before meeting her gaze.
“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s so completely fantastic that a group of people like you exist.” He shrugged. “Believe or not, I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of every bit of info you have. Especially since you have sources I don’t. I’m for whatever will bring Finster and Ubell to justice. Let’s put it this way—I’m keeping an open mind.”
It was clear he was holding something back—maybe what had caused him to glow. Short of showing him some “big proof,” like her sword and a fireball or two, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to convince him. Under the circumstances, she’d fall back on her curiosity. If he was going to work with them, she wanted to know more about him. “Well, let’s talk about something else. Where are you from, originally?”
“California, San Diego. You?”
“Here in the Chicago area. Both my mother’s and father’s families.”
“Oh,
yeah, you keep track of your genealogies.”
“We have to, for the magic. All it takes is for one parent to be a practitioner, and the child will be one, too, with full powers.”
“You marry ‘outside the faith,’ so to speak?”
“Yes, although personally I’ve never met anyone with a non-practitioner parent or spouse. Fergus and my parents have, though.” He seemed interested, but practitioner life was really none of his business, and she wasn’t going to go into the more personal aspects. “Anyway, I was born to all this. What about you? Do you come from a long line of cops? Or should I call you ‘Special Agent Tylan’?”
“Jim is fine.” He buttered a roll while he talked, and he didn’t meet her eyes. “My dad managed a grocery store, and my mom was a legal secretary. They were gunned down outside his store by a druggie trying to score for a fix. I wanted to be a cop all my life. That cinched it.”
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” Irenee said. She couldn’t even imagine going through such a horrible experience. “How old were you? Did you have other family?”
“Twenty-two. Only my sister, Charity. She’s dead now, too.” He almost mumbled the last part.
She was about to reach out her hand to offer more physical support, but before she could, the waiter brought their meals. When he had finished serving, Irenee looked again at Jim. His attention was totally on his steak. She wasn’t going to let him stop there, however. “Were you a regular city policeman, or more?”
“This is really good,” he said, taking another bite.
“Or did you go straight to the feds?”
One side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “You’re going to make me talk to you, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you’re the one who ‘wants to talk,’ remember?” She grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Talk.”
“Okay, okay. I always wanted to be in law enforcement. Majored in criminal justice in college. Worked on my Spanish, too. After I graduated, and my parents were killed, I went into the San Diego department. After Charity died, I joined the Drug Enforcement Administration, and I’ve been with the DEA since then.”
