The Wizards on Walnut Street

by Sam Swicegood

  My dad was a wizard. He was one of those people. He had an office and he did important things. I can’t explain why this lightened my heart so much, but after 20 years of knowing the man only by the occasional birthday card, it was an indescribably amazing feeling to realize that not only was he a real, tangible person, but that he did good things and protected people.

  And then, I realized as I felt my heart deflate, someone had killed him.

  “…so if they catch fire the whole room’s going to go up. So don’t do that.” Dammit, I did it again.

  I nodded again as though I had been listening. “When do you want me to start on this?”

  “Pretty much right now. Good luck.” She gave me a pitiful smile and then headed out the door, leaving me alone in the dusty archive.

  ~

  What she had called a need to “reorganize” was quite possibly the worst-organized file room I had seen in my life. Files, folders everywhere, strewn all over the floor. Photographs, reports, and pieces of notebook paper scrawled with handwritten notes as far as the eye could see. It also made me slightly queasy because this room appeared far deeper that should be possible given the route we had taken around the floor of the building, and I had to tell myself “It’s magic, that why it doesn’t make sense.”

  The files themselves were immensely interesting. Each file was a single client—Blue for businesses, red for individuals, and purple for other things. From what it looked like, nearly every major company in the United States had a contract with 50 Thousand Consulting, with a variety of different plans and services. One company, a tech startup in California, had paid a handsome sum to protect its lead employees from “Curses, Hexes and Vexes”, while a large New York City investment firm had a yearly retainer covering all its major employees with protective enchantments of the highest quality. The number amounts paid were mind-boggling, and the sheer amount of wealth being poured into this business was staggering.

  By noon I had done little more than some light reading, not caring too much about the whole task of organizing at all and headed to the break room for my lunch break. It was a quiet place, dotted with a few people here and there eating food from the many different places to eat in Cincinnati. I had noticed that on my last jaunt downtown: there was just a huge plethora of places to get food from and it boggled my mind. Food of all kinds, from Indian to Korean to Vietnamese…Cincinnati's dining scene was rocking.

  Right now, though, all I wanted was a cup of coffee, and I headed through the tables and chairs to the large, industrial coffee machine. An espresso pour spout stuck out of the sheet of metal, below a button that read “Push for Coffee.” I grabbed a nearby foam cup and put it in position before hitting the button. Nothing happened. I waited a few moments to be sure it wasn’t a delayed response of some kind and hit the button again. Nothing.

  “Stupid thing,” I muttered, and started to look around to see if there was another switch.

  “Excuse me?” I heard a voice say, and I looked around. No one was looking at me and I shook it off. “Who exactly are you calling stupid?”

  I blinked. The espresso machine was talking to me.

  “I…I…” I tried to form a sentence. “I didn’t mean to, I’m s—”

  “I will have you know,” the coffee machine said, its insides audibly boiling with rage, “That I have a Ph.D. in Classical Literature and Germanic Languages. I have written two books on the legal delineation of identity and its implications for individuation and migration as manifest in German exile literature of the period 1933-1945. Who is stupid now, human!?!” The espresso machine screeched, and I turned to see that half the break room was now looking at me. A man in a suit nearby pointed at a sign on the wall; I read it and turned a deep crimson shade in my cheeks. Please do not insult the espresso machine. It is sensitive about its useless graduate degrees.

  I picked up my coffee mug and decided to get some air.

  ~

  The coffee shop where Apollo worked was only down the street from the 50 Thousand building, and I was thankful it was so close. Even despite the mid-Tuesday rush I was able to grab a seat at the bar and get a cup of coffee relatively quickly.

  I took a few minutes to look at some of the people dropping in and out of the shop. How many of them were some breed of supernatural…thing? More than once I spotted a red mark on someone’s arm that indicated their membership in Sorcera, but beyond that I had no idea. I didn’t even understand what that meant, for me or for anyone else.

  “It’s rude to stare at people, ya know.” Apollo’s voice was a welcome distraction from the crowd-watching that was beginning to well up my anxiety.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking about—”

  “—Who is what and how would you know?” He chuckled and continued pulling someone’s espresso shot. “You’ll mostly see Sorcera and Vulnerabl here. At least, coming in the front door.”

  I gestured to my arms. “But you all don’t have…you know…”

  Apollo nodded and snapped the lid on a cup, handing it across the bar to a frumpy-looking old woman, before relaxing in the moment of a lull between customers. “No, we don’t do the whole ‘branding’ thing that you folks do. Instead, we wear these.” He stepped back and gestured to a gold chain around his ankle. “Gold jewelry,” he explained, “Traditional and supposedly boosts your capabilities. Plus, it’s way classier than magic bar code tattoos, let’s be honest. So—” he leaned over the counter, flashing a brilliant smile. “How’s your second day on the job? Make any new friends?”

  I thought for a moment about Carrie, Carma, Jake, the espresso machine—none of them particularly friend-like. Acquaintances, maybe, but certainly not friends. “I’m sorta…in the process?” I gave Apollo a sheepish look and took a gulp of my mocha-caramel-whatever latte. “I sorta don’t fit in very well. I got in a fight with an espresso machine, for Pete’s sake.”

  Apollo pulled a double-shot of espresso into a small coffee cup. “Yeah? That’s nothing. One time I spilled a cup of tea on a customer’s shoes and she ended up hexing me. I spent seven days completely unable to pick up anything breakable or I would immediately drop it. You just get used to this stuff I guess.”

  I nodded and took another sip. “You grew up knowing about all this…stuff?”

  Apollo downed the double-shot of espresso without adding anything to it. “Yeah. So I don’t have the whole context of somebody’s ‘first day’ in a world filled with wizards and dragons. But I’ve seen enough new employees around to get an idea of what you’re going through and to tell you the truth, you’re taking it pretty well. You’re not curled up on the sofa crying or bugging people to teach you magic spells or asking around about magical drugs. So there’s that at least. What do they have you doing, anyhow?”

  “Paperwork and filing. I’ve been here two days and it’s already a little soul-crushing.”

  “That’s Sorcera for you, hon. All the paperwork and bureaucracy of the most micromanaging governmental entities of the world, all coiled around the ability to cast basic spells; but think of it this way—all the other societies have innate weaknesses and limitations on what we can and can’t do. So, unless Sorcera shows, consistently, that it can govern and manage the nearly-limitless powers of its members, the other societies will see it as a threat. When you think about it, Sorcera has the potential to cause the most pain, chaos, and destruction on one of the largest scales, so it puts all kinds of roadblocks do even the simplest tasks because the alternative is a slippery slope toward massive chaos. In fact,” Apollo downed another double-shot of espresso, “in some cities, Sorcera are banned completely because the Dragon in charge, and the societies living in that city, think it’s too dangerous to have a human walking around who can blast holes in buildings or dry up a lake.”

  I drained the rest of my latte from the cup. “I guess that’s reasonable. It just sucks that it means someone’s got to do all the paperwork in the meantime.”

  Another customer approached the bar
and Apollo reached out and patted me on the head lightly. “Aww. Poor Andy has to do work. You’ll be fine, just keep doing your thing and you’ll get your permit soon. Then you’ll start doing fun stuff. Maybe.”

  ~

  Tuesday having wrapped up without much further event, I headed back home. I lugged a folding chair up and sat in my empty living room, my phone propped up against a fast food bag and lazily marathoning something on my phone.

  Bzz. A notification drifted across the top of my phone screen. Mom: Hey love, can you call or txt me as soon…I popped another curly fry into my mouth.

  Mom: Haven’t heard from you in a…I took a sip of my soda.

  Mom: Are you avoiding my calls? Ple…

  I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall. Yes, I was avoiding her calls. I didn’t need another guilt trip or another victim complex right now. “Why did you drop out of school?” “Why aren’t you applying yourself?” “Why don’t you ever call? I’m a widow now, I need support from you.” No, do not want. In fact, the only thing I wanted was a bit of extra sleep and another season of this show to get released to streaming video.

  The video stopped on its own. Incoming call: Hank.

  My brother. Dammit. I couldn’t avoid it, could I? I considered just muting my entire family, but with the strange happenings from the last week I honestly had a lot of questions I wanted answers to. I hit the handset icon. “Hey Hank.”

  “Andy. How’s Cincinnati treating you?”

  “About as good as it can.” I tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible and not open myself to further criticism I’m sure was powered by Mom’s nagging. She might even be on the other line, just listening in.

  “Mom’s been trying to reach ya. Are you avoiding her?”

  Too late. “I’m uh…I’m just doing a lot. Not trying to be, like, specifically avoiding her…” Lies, Andy! You’re a liar. All the lies.

  “Yeah, sure…but Mom’s getting pretty upset. You don’t want Mom upset, do you? She’s already going through so much.”

  “Wait, she’s going through so much?” I couldn’t help the rising anger in my voice and I took another big gulp of soda while I mentally bit my tongue.

  “Well, yeah. She just lost a husband, Andy.”

  “Well, she’s also been keeping some major secrets, Hank. Wait till I tell you what I’ve found out since moving out here—”

  The phone made a squealy noise and the call disconnected. I picked it up as my TV show restarted on its own, and I swiped to close it and call Hank back. Had I lost reception? Weird.

  I pressed “Call” on my contact list. The call immediately disconnected without even going to voicemail.

  “Did you…block me?” I said to no one, frustratedly launching my video streaming app again. Dammit, Hank. As the video resumed, I stuffed another fry into my mouth to stifle the curse words coming up my throat.

  Don’t do that again.

  I choked as I heard the deep voice in my ear, jumping nearly to my feet. It was that same dark, cranky voice that had been in my ear during my interview. “H-h-hello?” I said through bits of potato.

  Yer brother don’ know. Yeh aren’ allowed to tell him. Understood?

  I stood there a long moment, shaking as I looked at the darkness of the walls and corners of the condo, trying to discern the voice’s source. It seemed to be coming from everywhere. “I—I—”

  Understood? It was far more threatening this time.

  I coughed out a “Yes” and picked up my drink to wash it down. When I finished hacking up whatever was in the back of my throat, I had the feeling that the source of the voice was gone.

  Gone, but not forgotten.

  Chapter 6

  One thing I can never stand about the 9-5 grind is Thursday. It exists, and we as people recognize its existence, but I have yet to find a person who works the standard corporate schedule who enjoys Thursdays. Wednesday gets lots of flak for being “hump day” and the middle of the week, but when you break Thursday down, you find that it’s the epitome of end-of-the-week exhaustion. Fridays, even, end up being a better day because of the morale boost of the oncoming weekend, and the fact that no one really delves deep into hard work on Friday. Mondays get a lot of hate too, but on Mondays at least you’re rested enough to be half-conscious after a cup of coffee or two. So you’re left with Thursday, the worst possible day of the week, which by all rights should be taken out back and shot.

  Wednesday, to its credit, had been long but bearable. The entire day had been spent in the file room, putting things into piles mostly absent-mindedly. I didn’t really care much about the job itself, or any of the perks that came with it. The idea of wizardry and sorcery, while really cool, were also a level of ridiculousness that I didn’t particularly need in my life. And, to be fair, all signs of cool things were under heavy paperwork to uncover, none of which I felt particularly compelled to complete.

  This Thursday, however, was truly a credit to its species.

  The folder hit my desk with a sharp slap, and I jolted upright, tearing my eyes away from the company email I had been trying to decipher (Re: Fire Safety and Evacuation - Sorcerous Fires and You! (Part 2)[7]) and gave my best impression of a raptly-attentive employee while gazing up at the button-nosed Wizard in front of me. I had started to recognize them on sight. Why did they all have to look so similar? The same pinstripe suits, the same blue-and purple paisley ties, the same obnoxiously smug look plastered over their stupid faces. I could already see Devin fitting in with them someday.

  He glanced at my nameplate. “Alright…Andy,” he said as though my name was a foreign word he was attempting to pronounce correctly for the first time, “Since you’re the only co-op free right now due to the maintenance outage, I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  I smiled and nodded politely, holding back an eye twitch. I did not like this man. I’ll have to do, will I? I began to mentally drop profanity.

  “I wouldn’t finish that thought if I were you,” he snapped. Dammit, Lisa was right. “Now if you’re quite finished with being a contemptuous new hire, you might actually learn something.”

  “Yessir.”

  He scowled at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Now, you’ll find that I have a list of items that need purchasing. Go down to the 14th floor, and you’ll find the security office. Borrow a bodyguard and get these things from the market. I expect them to be delivered to my office by 2. Give your receipt to accounting.”

  Without another word he turned on his heel and was gone down the hallway.

  Deep breaths, Andy. Shaking myself mentally, I opened the folder to find a small list of items—Gold foil, wooden skewers, a crystal cup, and something called “Calfnot”—and it didn’t seem too difficult. But where I would buy these things I had no idea. I glanced at my watch: it was already almost noon. I leapt up and grabbed my hoodie from the hook and took off toward the elevators. A minute later I emerged on the 14th floor, greeted with the same matte gold walls and white marble tile floors as my own floor. The sign directed me around the corner to the security office and I entered, my heart beating in my chest. What kind of security would be employed at a company that employs powerful wizards?

  The office, however, was empty save for a security desk and a single door. I glanced around to be sure I was in the right place and spotted a “Press here for assistance” button on the desk. I pressed it, my finger shaking from the trepidation.

  The door opened, and a tall, stern-faced woman stepped through to meet me. She was dressed in a form-fitting business casual outfit, and I might have doubted she was any kind of security guard whatsoever if not for the sword that hung, sheathed, from her belt. Auburn-red, wavy hair hung loosely around her freckled, stern face, which currently fixed me with a cold stare. “What can I do for you?”

  “I—” I stumbled over my words and tried to sew them together into a cohesive sentence. I bought time by opening the folder and shuffling the pages inside briefly. “I was told to get
a—a bodyguard—”

  “Great, let’s go.” She slipped past me toward the door and held it open. “Where are headed?”

  Dammit, why were these easy questions so friggin’ difficult? “I don’t…some kind of market—I have to get—”

  “Are you new?” She stopped, and that icy glare was on me again. An awkward silence thick enough to frost a cake settled between us for a long moment before I nodded.

  She gestured out the door with her head impatiently. “That’s fine, I’ll fill you in while we go.” I followed her down the hall, to the elevators.

  My eyes were stuck forward as the elevator made it swiftly down to the ground floor. The folder clutched protectively to my chest like a +1 shield of organization, I willed myself to not say a word and risk sounding utterly stupid. And then, of course, was this woman, who was apparently a security guard at a firm that, again, hired powerful wizards. Was she a wizard herself? What kinds of weapons did she have at her disposal besides the sword? No way to be sure. Clearly, I didn’t want to piss her off.

  “Okay,” She said as the elevator began to slow, “You seriously need to chill out. I can, like, feel your tension.” She glanced sideways at me. “You’re going to give yourself indigestion or something if you keep that up.”

  I opened my mouth to apologize, or argue, or something, but at that moment the door to the lobby opened and she was off again, slipping past the front desk and out the doors onto Walnut Street. I followed as closely behind as I could. “Um…Hey…security…person—”

  “Killian.” She stopped and rounded on me impatiently.

  “Right. Killian. I don’t know where we’re going. I’m not trying to bother or anything, but I really could use some context here. If you can fill me in it would really help me toward the whole ‘chilling out’ thing.”