The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  As baffling as this version of the Fool was, it did have a swirling ribbon crossed over itself to form a heart-shaped rose- colored lens directly in front of the Fool’s surprised face.

  Steve decided he could do without the green costume– although he was tempted by the abdominal muscles–and only Studied the looping ribbon and the heart-shaped lens. He gritted his teeth and, sure enough, staggered to his knees with pain ricocheting between his ears as the entire park turned a gentle rose color.

  Ace regarded him in unworried assessment. “So, does all that extravagant groaning and writhing mean the magic worked, or are you auditioning for a zombie flick?”

  Steve had both hands flat to the sides of his head in a desperate attempt to keep his brain from spouting out his ears like one of the park’s many fountains. He glared at Ace and climbed to his feet without deigning to answer. With the lens in place, the solution was obvious. There was a thick golden line stretching from the Dante statue to the twenty-foot-high wall that separated the flat top of the park from the steeply sloped bottom half.

  The golden line went to the center of the concrete panel on the far right–close to the stairs. Steve thought about the park’s topography and realized that, with an entrance there, the open field at the top could be the roof of an underground bunker that would extend for an entire city block.

  “Hey!” Carlos said. “Not all of us have spiffy magic glasses, you know. It might be useful to describe what you’re seeing.”

  “You’re right,” Steve said. “I might get taken out in battle and you guys would have to continue alone.”

  “As far as battle goes, we’re already doing most of the work.” She smacked one of her batons into her palm. “I believe Carlos was thinking more of the danger that I’ll coldcock you in sheer frustration.”

  “Ah. OK.” Steve began to turn and scan the park. “First, there is a magic string or something connecting Old Grumpy here to the first concrete panel on that retaining wall behind the largest fountain. Throw in the fact that it’s dead on the intersection of the Fall Line with the American Prime Meridian at the place where X Street would cross–”

  “–if it existed.”

  “If it existed,” Steve agreed. “Up on top, behind Joan of Arc there, is an open field a block wide–used to be a parade field for training troops during the Civil War.

  “Were there any parts of this city that weren’t turned into a fort during the Civil War?” Carlos asked.

  Steve wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by the statue of Joan of Arc on her horse that stood in the center of the upper terrace. A growing golden glow was building around the black iron figure. “Um, Ace. I think you should get ready for incoming.”

  “What?”

  “Just stand right there.” Steve said as he walked quickly–he would have denied that he was “scuttling”–behind the marble plinth that held up Dante. “I’m thinking about Joan up there. Woman who fought in full armor. Burned at the stake in the same Inquisition the King of France set up to take out the Templars.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’re the Ace of Swords.” Steve beckoned Carlos to join him under Dante’s skirts. “Oh, and right now, she’s lighting up like a Times Square billboard. Did I forget to mention that?”

  Ace began to pull the wrist rocket’s arms out to the ready position. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “No clue, but the lightshow has reached the small nuclear weapon level.” Steve shoved Carlos down below the level of the pedestal. “I’d say that whatever is going to happ–”

  There was a sizzling zzzzap, a line of fire streaked from the statue, and a loud smack was followed by a string of curses that would have stretched the vocabulary of any drill instructor on Coronado Beach–even during Hell Week. The strange glow dimmed and Steve decided it was safe enough to peer around the statue and check on Ace. She was holding a black iron sword in her left hand, while violently shaking the right, looking like a catcher seconds after a Stephen Strasburg fastball missed the webbing between the thumb and first finger and hit his palm.

  Steve checked to be certain that Joan’s light show was over, in case she had something for him as well. It was. Emerging from behind the statue and lowering his magical lens, he said, “I’d say that you now have the proper weapon for the Ace of Swords.”

  Ace scowled at him. “I noticed you guys were well out of the line of fire.”

  “We all play different roles according to our personal strengths,” Steve said breezily. “Mine is to explore the mystic depths of the universe, while yours is to stand in the path of fast- moving objects.”

  “Thanks.” Ace growled. “This is no bronze replica. It feels like a proper sword: well balanced, and–ouch!–quite sharp.”

  “Oddly, it was missing for years,” Steve said. “Poor Joan was left sitting on her horse and holding just a bit of the hilt. It was only replaced a couple of years ago.”

  “Yeah. Odd, isn’t it?” Barnaby’s voice came from Steve’s beltline. “Switching swords during a restoration isn’t easy.”

  “So that was your doing?” Steve said. “I suppose you’re going to say it’s really Joan’s sword.”

  “The very same sword she discovered buried in the ground next to the Church of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois and lost on the day of her final battle.”

  Ace was making practice swings and thrusts. “How did you end up with it?”

  “I’m sorry, but even a mere string of machine language commands has the right to a bit of mystery. Let’s just say it had to do with Nimue and a favor she ended up owing to the Black Chamber during World War One.”

  “Nimue was Merlin’s girlfriend, right?” Steve said thoughtfully. “She stuck him inside a tree and left him there as I remember.”

  “That’s a gross oversimplification, but yes.” Barnaby managed to sound like a college professor near the end of the term. “She was also the Lady of the Lake, who gave Excalibur to King Arthur.”

  “Same sword?” Carlos asked.

  “Of course. How many incredibly powerful magical swords do you think are just lying around this world?”

  “And now it’s mine.” Ace faced the statue on the horse and brought the sword up to her forehead in a ceremonial salute. “I hope I‘m worthy.”

  “You had better be worthy or you’ll end up in a tree trunk in Rock Creek somewhere,” Barnaby said. “That promise comes directly from the source who also pointed out that it’s only a loan.”

  Steve asked, “What could the Black Chamber do for a mythical figure?”

  “Oddly, there are still a few things that are classified above your level, Fool.”

  The speakerphone vibrated against Steve’s belt and Barnaby changed the subject. “Send Money is right. We need to get moving. Steve, please work out how to open that door and let’s get on with this. Our mission has acquired an entirely new level of urgency. They’re raising the estimate for the next sacrifice–it’s now well over two kilo-logos.”

  “What’s that translate to in real terms?” Carlos asked.

  “Consider what just over 3,000 dead did to the national psyche when the Trade Towers were hit and extrapolate that out to two hundred thousand. It’s the sort of power that brings major demons across the line and raises armies of the dead from the ground.”

  “Score!” Steve pumped a fist. “I knew zombies were going to come into this somewhere!”

  “Do you realize how incredibly insensitive that comment is?” Barnaby scolded him. “But essentially, you’re correct. So, once you get inside, defeating or even engaging with the Illuminati is far less important than finding out more about the atrocity they’re planning.”

  Steve said, “So it’s worth our lives to get this information?”

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Steve pulled the rose lens over his eyes again. Under the upper level of the park, he could see a greenish circle with a slower, more relaxed stream of e
nergy in the center, and dozens of smaller hubs of varying colors were visible among the trees on both sides of the big lawn. In some way he couldn’t define, he knew that each possessed a unique “taste.” Some were blazing with African spices, others burned with dark power, and several rang with bells or the sound of choirs. His best guess was that every belief system that had ever passed through Washington–from Santeria to The New Thought to the Episcopalians–had spooled up power here and locked it in with ritual.

  “This place must be the psychic powerhouse for the entire district.”

  “Hey. Earth to Rowan.” Ace’s sardonic voice broke his concentration. “Could you stop looking around like a damn tourist and get us through that wall over there?”

  Ace was holding the sword with a relaxed wrist so that the weapon pointed safely toward the ground in front of her. Through the lens, however, there was an overlay of the sword pointing straight up and topped with a crown and a laurel wreath. The odd thing was that the real Ace was constantly shifting and changing, but the sword was firm and clear. Steve could only guess that it had to do with the mutating nature of reality and the permanence of the ideal.

  “You do realize that staring at me isn’t a whole lot more useful than staring witlessly around the park, right?”

  Steve shook his head to clear the image of the sword and looked away. “Just so you know, that is not one of your everyday swords you’ve got there.”

  “Ya think?” Ace said. “I can hear the damn thing talking to me. Please keep that in mind, because it’s extremely single-minded and not terribly particular.”

  “You’re telling me not to get in its way?”

  “Not if you want to leave this park with all the parts you came in with,” Ace said. “She’s an expert with a job to do and very little patience.”

  “You two must get along like peas in a pod.”

  “Well, I’m not interested in a date but we could work together for quite a while,” Ace said. Steve could see the shadowy outlines of the real sword move as Ace continued to test the balance and take a few practice swings. He turned to the statue of Dante, the quicker he gave these two deadly females something else to concentrate on, the better.

  The golden line ran directly to the book that Dante was holding. Steve could see enough of the cover to recognize the Divine Comedy–Dante’s classic trilogy of his journeys through Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. The writer was gripping it fiercely in both hands and glaring as if worried that someone would take it away.

  “I can’t see a way to get to the book,” Steve mused.

  Barnaby spoke up. “Well, there are two famous quotes from the Divina Commedia: ‘The path to paradise begins in hell’ and the inscription over the gates of Hell–”

  “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Carlos said. When Steve gave him a puzzled look, he said defensively, “Hey, medieval literature was a requirement, OK?”

  “In medieval Italian, that would be Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate,” Barnaby said.

  Steve repeated the phrase in his best “magician” voice–not that he had the slightest clue what a magician should sound like.

  Nothing happened.

  The cell phone buzzed and Steve unclipped it and read aloud.

  VIRGILIO MI HA MANDATO

  Nothing happened.

  “What did that mean?” he asked Send Money.

  VIRGIL SENT ME

  “Oh, like a speakeasy. That makes as much sense as anything else,” Steve admitted.

  Ace said slowly, “Well, if you take the inscription literally, you need to abandon all hope before you can get in. Why don’t we tell him that?”

  The smart phone’s screen blinked

  ABBIAMO PERSO OGNI SPERANZA E ANCORA ABBIAMO ANCORA VOGLIA DI ENTRARE

  Steve carefully read out the words. Nothing happened. “What did you say?” Carlos asked.

  “Why would you think I had any idea?” Steve responded. “Send?”

  WE HAVE GIVEN UP ALL HOPE AND YET WE STILL WISH TO ENTER

  “How totally cheerful,” Steve said. “Why is it you’re so damn fast when it comes to translating dismal stuff? You might as well quote the old Marine Corps battle cry, ‘Come on, you bastards. Who wants to live forever?’”

  Immediately the golden cord began to droop. At its other end, a portion of the concrete wall about the size of a garage door was swinging inward as the magical tension that had held it loosened.

  “The Corps was always a bunch of loudmouths.” Ace scowled.

  “Why? What’s a SEAL’s battle cry?”

  “We don’t say anything, obviously. Simply killing people is much more effective. Eventually, the enemy works out the fact that you’re around.” She looked around the area. “Now, could you please tell us mere mortals what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “You can’t see the door that just opened in the wall over there?”

  Both Ace and Carlos shook their heads.

  “Fine.” Steve started toward the opening. “Then follow me and walk into the same patch of concrete that I do.”

  It was only twenty feet to the opening in the wall. Even though the others still couldn’t see anything, they walked through the nonexistent open door quite easily, if a bit hesitantly.

  The interior was in complete darkness, even when Steve drew the lens over his eyes. He experimented, trying to see if it was helping or hurting his ability to see in the gloom. Eventually, he settled for arranging it so that it covered his left eye but left his right unchanged. This way, he could see magical tripwires and, if he squinted, avoid the double image that it gave to objects like Ace’s sword.

  Ace tucked all her hair under the ball cap, pulled up the long collar, and now completely covered by the black combat suit, disappeared into the darkness. Carlos was still wearing the shirt, jeans, and boots that Coyote had given him–he’d change to the cadejo once he was well inside.

  Steve ruthlessly quashed any worries about his manhood and went last. The place smelled of old stone and seeping moisture. Everything was black–both his covered and uncovered eyes couldn’t make out a thing.

  He unsnapped Send Money from his clip and turned on the video camera. As he watched, an overlay began to appear. “Barnaby, are you mapping the area with radar?”

  “I would if Send Money had radar,” the program answered. “Give me a minute and between the Keystones overhead and a couple of speed radars over on 16th, I’ll kludge up a map for you.

  Steve swept the on-screen menu up from the bottom. “Hell, I can just turn on the flashlight function–”

  Barnaby shouted, “NO!” and Send Money began to vibrate frantically. The phone actually jerked so hard that Steve missed the little onscreen button that turned on the light. He jabbed at it a few more times without success before Send Money managed to twist out of his hands completely. As he bent down to pick the phone up, he could hear Barnaby shouting, “Damn it! Will you stop?”

  “Why? Worried about running down the battery?” Steve stopped poking at the screen.

  “No, it’s not the battery.” Barnaby’s voice sounded relieved. “That light is a weapon.”

  “Cool.” Steve examined the screen again. “Can I try it out?”

  “NO!”

  “OK. For the moment, I’ll go with a hands-off policy,” Steve said. “What the hell is it, anyway? A weaponized laser or something?”

  Steve jumped as Ace appeared right in front of him. “Do you remember when we first met?”

  “You mean when you came up to my apartment and I was half naked?”

  “Ugh. Your unclothed body is not one of my favorite memories. Seriously, don’t ever bring that up again. OK?”

  Steve started to defend his physique, but was stopped by a warning touch on his lips. This might have been enjoyable with the right person, but this was Ace and he realized that what was against his lips was the tip of Joan’s sword.

  Ace continued. “I told you that my orders were to get you and the phone but I
was to choose the phone over you if it came down to it.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Steve mumbled in agreement.

  Barnaby picked up the explanation. “Obviously, we had warnings, omens, prophecies, and whatever to let us know that you would be important, and evidently they weren’t completely off base, even though many of us still feel we could have done better.”

  Steve made a noise of protest through closed lips but stopped abruptly when the sword pressed a little harder.

  “The predictions about Send Money were far, far clearer.” Barnaby continued. “As far back as the 1930’s there was a group called the Brotherhood of the Light that used a black-and-white tarot deck with Egyptian art. Very rare. Very powerful. When our best operatives did readings with the Deck of Light, they kept getting ‘Obi Wan,’ 54, 44.

  Steve managed to get a questioning noise out.

  “That’s a combination of Cockney Rhyming Slang, ASCII, and military codes. Obi Wan Kenobi is a ‘Moby’ or a mobile phone, and ’54, 44’ is ASCII for TD. In the US military, that means Tango Delta—Target or Terrorist Down. After we’d worked that out all the readers could get was ‘ATFC’ over and over.”

  Ace asked, “’Answer the freaking cellphone’?”

  “Indeed,” Barnaby said. “Once it was accompanied by a quote from the Tibetan Book of the Dead, ‘The self-originating clear light, eternally unborn.’ Finally, one of the best analysts in the Kabbalah Corps identified the light reference as applying to a scintilla of Yud, which is the first of the Four Names of God. This would, of course, be the light that existed for the brief instant before the Big Bang.”

  “I was just about to say it had something to do with Yuds.” Steve had finally managed to pull his head away from the sword.

  Barnaby sounded tired, if that were possible. “If this little phone’s LED is in fact Science and Nature held in synthesis by the subtle spark of a human soul, it could be the only real weapon we have against black magic.”