The Alchemy Press Book of Urban Mythic

by Unknown

  Mica Dragon-form.

  The large hunger taunts her. It is also very aware, unlike the hungers who are just by-products of emotions.

  Mica Dragon-form.

  She refuses to rise to its baiting.

  I have been waiting for this day to meet you, Sheng’s granddaughter.

  She stiffens. This hunger knows her grandfather.

  I want to feast on your life, little ti lung, Mica Dragon-form.

  She visualises her circle of protection and holds her dagger up. Salut. Always be polite to your enemy, Kim has said once. Wolves posture a lot, she counters back.

  In her mind, the four dragons rage, straining to be unleashed. Her dragon-form bristles and bares teeth. Her scales flash like mica under the sun. She wants to fight this thing.

  But I will make you dance for me. Wait. Pine. The battle will be soon. Not now.

  ‘Stay and fight, hunger!’ She shouts.

  Mocking laughter answers her, then nothing –

  The dark form dissipates in the breeze. She is left standing with her athame drawn and a gaping crowd of school kids. She shakes it off and walks away, pretending not to notice their giggles and pointing fingers.

  It’s my-kar, not me-kar.

  Kim can be so sweet in a dorky, geeky way. She is still grappling with her feelings for him. He is now in the army. He insists calling her me-kar.

  Mica Dragon-form.

  The dark hunger knows her personal name. In magic, knowing true names and forms gives power. And control. Her mentors have taught her that important lesson.

  But how did it know?

  How?

  She is frightened. Her confidence is so easily shaken. Should she tell mum and dad?

  Sleep is not easy. She ends up reading her textbooks, burying herself in schoolwork. Besides, her exams are coming.

  Outside, the wind picks up, beating against the glass panels.

  Perhaps, she will talk to the water spirit, check if there is something strange in the neighbourhood.

  The water spirit is nowhere to be found. Mica stares at the still lake, apprehension sitting like a cold lump in her chest. Nearby children play ball.

  The sun is warm on her back. Her sandaled feet crunch dry brown leaves. It is unusually hot and the trees are showing their thirst in their yellowing leaves and parched bark.

  The hunger.

  Worried that the hunger might have done something to the gentle water spirit, she starts to pace along the shore.

  Enough!

  This time, her ritual is more elaborate, calling her four dragons, naming them. The circle flares up with the dragon forms as silent sentinels, glaring balefully at any intruder. She pierces through the layers of reality…

  …And what she sees shocks her.

  The dark form shrieks towards her, its maw wide open as if to consume her in one single gulp.

  Her entire body freezes. She tries to accept the truth that the hunger thirsting for her flesh is … was … the water spirit.

  How did she get corrupted into such a...

  Who did it?

  Who corrupted her and twisted her being inside out, tearing out her goodness, her everything?

  Mica has a bad feeling that she knows who the culprit is.

  ‘Culprit’ isn’t exactly the word. Too gentle, too mild. More like ‘Murderer’ or—

  Her circle of protection surrounds her like a ring of sun-fire. This time, her dragon form takes over, hissing and rearing like a striking snake.

  The four dragons snarl and lash out with their talons. This time, they become her guardians, protecting her physical and spiritual body from harm.

  ‘Dragon…’

  Mica pushes away any feeling she has had for her former friend and meets the hunger head on, her dragon form dagger singing in undiluted joy.

  I am sorry, I am so sorry…

  The exhaustion is crippling. She finds herself unable to get out of bed and go to school. Every bone in her body screams with pain and every nerve sharp threads of hot fire. Her mother peers in, worried.

  ‘I made you some tonic soup,’ she says, shaking her head. Mica stirs, trying to answer her mother, and winces as her sudden movement triggers yet another cascade of pain. Her joints throb,

  Is that the price she is paying for using the dragon-form dagger?

  ‘You should go see Dr Tan about this,’ her mother sits down on her bed, resting delicately at the edge.

  ‘Ugnh,’ Mica can only manage. Her head spins. Vertigo.

  ‘Can you get up?’

  ‘No,’ Mica whispers and she feels as if she is a newborn kitten mewing.

  Beside her, the dragon-form dagger glows green.

  Mica curls up under her blanket, shutting out the images of dragons on fire.

  Ah-ma visits her in dream-time and nags at her about overtaxing her body. Then the dream dissolves into a spray of diamond-like water.

  She emerges from the fevered dreams better and strengthened. Perhaps the tonic soups helped.

  Standing takes some co-ordination. She curses limbs gone weak from lack of use. She manages to wear her school uniform without any major drama.

  It is then she catches sight of herself at the mirror. The coppery streak seems to have grown more vivid, like the gold of the setting sun. She can’t hide anymore.

  She has to catch up with her homework which has piled up during her convalescence. She finds her marks plummeting. Her teachers sit her down and talk to her about her future.

  ‘You have to work towards your goals,’ her English teacher, Mrs Peirera, says sternly. ‘You have so much potential, Yin Tian. You should get that re-dyed. Black.’ She glanced at the lock of hair, strands of gold peeping out.

  What can a dragon-form witch do?

  The darkness waits for her, a mysterious enemy who wants her blood.

  In the dream, the darkness pursues her, laughing and mocking.

  She flees the darkness, as if she is afraid of it.

  In the dream, she fears the night, for it is the time the darkness awakes and begins its hunt.

  When she wakes, bleary-eyed and heart-sick, she wonders who is the hunter and the hunted.

  Mid-terms come and go. She finds her results dipping again. The principal, Mrs Tham, calls for an ‘interview’. She dreads it. She fears that she might have to stop her duties.

  Mother glares at her, daring her to say something.

  ‘You are not a hero,’ Mother begins her barrage. ‘You are not your ah-ma. Stop it. We are no longer in the days of strife.’

  This cuts her straight into her heart. She feels the immediate flood of tears burning in her eyes. Does her own mother think it is all fun and games? Is she not worthy of taking over ah-ma’s … ah ma’s what – role? rank?

  No wonder the rest of the non-human groups think that the Lung, the Chinese dragons, are confusing. Aloof and reclusive; claiming to be protectors and watchers in their own right. They contradict themselves.

  She gives up wanting to argue with her mother and goes back to her room. She takes out the dragon form dagger and places it gingerly on her study table. It gleams, its green eyes shining with its own light.

  ‘You,’ she hisses at it, curbing the instinct to scream, balling her hands into fists. ‘I blame you. I hate you.’

  The dagger does not reply.

  With a growl deep in her chest, her dragon part simmering like a hot spring, she ignores the dagger and walks away.

  Have you lost the battle, little Mica?

  The darkness laughs in the background, a dry rasping of leaves, rattling lungs and spite.

  Have you? Have you?

  No.

  Fool Mica. Fool.

  I will get you one day. One day.

  The Wizard of West 34th Street

  Mike Resnick

  I’m sitting at my desk, pretty much minding my own business and wondering how the Knicks will do when they go up against the Celtics in a few hours, when Milt Kaplan starts muttering into his phone
about fifteen feet away from me. I try not to pay attention, but he gets louder and louder, and there is a desperate tone in his voice, and it becomes clear that he is being harassed for rent money or a credit card bill or a phone bill or (knowing Milt) probably a combination of all three.

  Finally he slams the phone down and stares at the wall. For almost three minutes, which is a long time to stare at anything except a pretty girl. I am afraid he might be getting suicidal, so I figure a funny remark will bring him back to Earth, and I tell him that he can only stare at his half of the wall, if I see his eyes darting to the right I’m going to charge him the standard fee for staring at my half.

  He doesn’t crack a smile, but when he speaks his voice is soft and strained.

  ‘I think I’m gonna have to see the Wiz,’ he says.

  ‘Of Oz?’ I ask with a smile.

  He shakes his head and doesn’t return the smile. ‘Not unless Oz has moved to the West Thirties.’

  So now I figure he has gone off the deep end, he’s just being quiet about it.

  He checks his watch. It’s a quarter to noon.

  ‘What the hell,’ he says. ‘They’re not gonna fire me for taking an early lunch. If he’s in the usual spot, I’ll be back by one. If not, cover for me.’

  I don’t want to let him go walking through noontime traffic in this state of mind, so I get to my feet.

  ‘Want a little company?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘It’s chilly out, and if there’s a line waiting to see him, it’ll be nice to have someone to talk with.’

  We put our coats on, take the elevator down from the twenty-seventh floor, walk through the lobby, and out the main entrance.

  ‘I hope the import/export business doesn’t grind to a halt because we left a little early,’ I say.

  ‘I was arranging for two gross of Bermuda shorts for what we call extra-large women,’ he replies. ‘I think the country can survive an extra hour and a quarter without them.’

  We walk south a few blocks, then turn right when we come to 34th Street.

  ‘Six or seven cross-city blocks and we’re there,’ he announces, heading off.

  ‘We’re where?’ I ask.

  ‘Where we’re going,’ he says.

  ‘Is it a building, or a restaurant, or what?’

  ‘That all depends.’

  Now I know he’s crazy, because locations don’t change from one thing to another on a whim. It’s getting chilly, so I figure if I can get him to admit we’re on a wild goose chase, maybe we can stop at a coffee shop, warm up, and go back to work at a quarter to one, before anyone gets too mad at us. So I ask: ‘What does it all depend on?’

  ‘Where he’s at, of course,’ says Milt.

  ‘Where who’s at?’ I ask in exasperation.

  ‘The Wiz,’ he explains as if to a child. ‘Where the hell did you think we were going?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ I say, because there is a story circulating around that whenever Milt Kaplan gets lost he can usually be found in Passaic with a blonde named Bernice. He doesn’t seem inclined to expand upon his answer, so finally I ask where we are going.

  ‘West 34th, of course,’ he answers. ‘Where else would we be going?’

  ‘Beats the hell out of me,’ I say. I’d shrug, but it’s too damned cold out.

  ‘I mean,’ Milt continues, ‘he is the Wizard of West 34th Street. Why would I look for him anywhere else?’

  ‘The Wizard of West 34th Street?’ I repeat. ‘I never heard of him.’

  ‘He doesn’t advertise.’

  ‘An understatement,’ I say.

  ‘My wife hates it when I go to him. She always thinks he’s going to want to be paid with my soul instead of with money.’ He snorts. ‘As if anyone could find the damned thing.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got no choice. We could lose the apartment – and trying to get a place after you’ve been living a dozen years with rent control…’ He lets his voice tail off.

  ‘Tell me about this Wizard,’ I say. ‘Does he wear a pointed hat and a robe with all the signs of the Zodiac?’

  Milt shakes his head. ‘He dresses just like anyone else.’ He pauses thoughtfully. ‘Maybe a little worse.’ Another pause. ‘And he usually needs a shave.’

  ‘Goes with having a long white beard,’ I suggest.

  ‘Nah,’ says Milt. ‘Usually it’s just stubble. Kind of the way Clint Eastwood used to look in those spaghetti Westerns, only gray.’

  ‘And this is a guy you think is a wizard?’

  ‘I don’t think it, I know it,’ replies Milt. ‘We all know it.’

  ‘Who all knows it?’ I ask.

  ‘All the guys who use him.’

  ‘Sound like he’s got a hell of a sweet racket going,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised the cops haven’t busted him.’

  ‘Why should they?’ he shoots back. ‘There’s never been a complaint against him. Hell, sometimes the cops use him too.’

  ‘I’ve got to see this wonder worker,’ I say.

  ‘You will,’ he promises as we cross Sixth Avenue. ‘He’s usually somewhere between Eighth and Tenth.’

  ‘He must be freezing his ass off.’

  Milt chuckles. ‘We’ll find him in a bar, or perhaps a sandwich shop, either on 34th itself or maybe two or three buildings north or south on one of the cross streets. He doesn’t like being outside except in the summer.’

  So we walk, and I try to guess which brownstone Rex Stout pretended that Nero Wolfe lived in, and we peek into the windows of a couple of bars, but Milt shakes his head after a moment and we keep on, and finally come to a deli.

  ‘Yeah, there he is,’ says Milt without much enthusiasm. ‘Damn, I hate this!’

  ‘So let’s turn around and go back to the office,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ he responds unhappily. ‘I need the money.’

  ‘What is he really?’ I ask. ‘Some kind of loan shark?’

  He shakes his head again. ‘You coming in with me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I say, falling into step behind him as he enters the place. We make a beeline for a table where this middle-aged guy is sitting. His clothes clearly came off the bargain rack to begin with, and have all seen better days and better years, and the shoes have probably seen better decades. He’s got a bowtie beneath his unbuttoned collar, but it’s just hanging down, and I get the feeling that the next time he ties it into a bow will be the first time. There’s a patch on his jacket’s elbow, and he could use a haircut or, failing that, at least a comb.

  ‘Ah, Milton!’ he says, looking up from his meal, which seems to consist entirely of chopped liver and rye bread, plus a couple of cheese blintzes. ‘How nice to see you again! Sit down. Have a knosh.’

  ‘“Have a knosh?”’ I repeat. ‘What kind of language is that for a wizard?’

  He stares at me. ‘How many wizards do you talk to on a daily basis?’ he asks at last.

  ‘This is my friend Jacob,’ says Milt hastily. ‘Can he join us?’

  ‘Got no room at this table for Jacobs,’ says the Wizard. He turns to me. ‘You want to sit at an informal table like this, you got to be Jake.’

  ‘Okay, I’m Jake,’ I say, sitting down.

  ‘You look like you are,’ he says. I frown, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. ‘Forget it,’ he adds. ‘It’s an old expression I found lying on the floor.’

  ‘Have you got a name?’ I ask.

  ‘You couldn’t pronounce it,’ he replies. ‘Just call me Wiz.’

  The waiter comes up and hands the Wiz a folded note. He opens it, reads it, and shakes his head. ‘It’s gonna rain Tuesday morning, and this horse can’t stand up in the mud, let alone run six furlongs on it. Tell him No.’

  ‘I heard the forecast just before I left the house this morning,’ I say. ‘It calls for clear weather all week.’

  ‘Amazing how these guys can stay in business when they’re wrong so often,’ comments the Wi
z, pouring some cinnamon sugar on his blintzes. ‘So, my friend Milton, what can I do for you today?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a cash flow problem,’ says Milt.

  The Wiz closes his eyes for a few seconds, and he frowns like he’s concentrating on something. ‘You don’t have to sugar-coat it, Milton, not with me. You’re in deep shit.’

  Milt nods uncomfortably.

  ‘Could be worse,’ says the Wiz. ‘You could live in some town where you needed a car, because if you did they’d sure as hell have repossessed it if you’d waited this long to see me.’

  ‘I kept waiting for the market to turn,’ answers Milt miserably. ‘My broker kept saying it would happen any day.’

  The Wiz makes a face. ‘Brokers!’ he snorts contemptuously. ‘They’re almost as bad as weathermen.’ He pauses and stares at Milt. ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asks Milt, surprised.

  ‘My mistake,’ amends the Wiz. ‘How much do you want? We both know how much you need.’

  ‘Twelve, thirteen grand?’ says Milt, though it comes out more as a question.

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘By Friday.’

  ‘Too bad,’ says the Wiz. ‘There’s a really nice filly who’ll be running for a big price on Saturday.’ I must have made a face, because he turns to me. ‘You don’t think she’ll win?’

  ‘I don’t even know who the hell she is,’ I say. ‘But somehow I thought a wizard was more than a racetrack tout.’

  ‘I’m not a racetrack tout,’ he replies. ‘I haven’t been to Belmont or Aqueduct in years.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, and I want you to remember that I didn’t take offense at it.’ He turns to Milt. ‘Give me a pen.’ Milt supplies one, and he begins scribbling on a paper napkin. ‘You still have a little over seventeen hundred dollars in your bank account. Take it out—’

  ‘All of it?’ interrupts Milt, his voice shaking a little.

  ‘Take it out,’ repeats the Wiz firmly. ‘Give it to your broker, and tell him to go to the commodities market and invest it all on what I just wrote down.’ He looks up at Milt. ‘Now, this is important, Milton, so pay attention. He has to buy between noon and 1:00p.m. on Wednesday, and he has to sell it between 10:00 and 11:00a.m. on Friday morning. If one or the other of you fucks up either end of it, don’t come running to me.’