by LE Barbant
“So, we know where they are,” Elijah said. “Now what? I’m not strong enough to take them on alone. And there’s no telling what state Willa and Tim will be in.”
Crane sipped his tea and set it on the side table next to the picture of his wife. Willa’s spellbook laid next to it. “I don’t see what choice you have.”
“Stealth,” Rhett said. “We sneak in, I persuade one of the guards to tell us where they’re being kept, and we sneak out before anyone’s the wiser.”
“I thought your mind control thing didn’t work on the wizards.”
“I’ve already told you, it’s not mind control. People just respond well to my pleasant manners.” He smiled. “And it didn’t work on the Guild’s force because they had their guard up. I influenced Willa remember? And that beatnik wannabe the other night. They’re still human, even with all that poetry rattling around their skulls. They won’t expect me to show up at their hideout. We’ll be on their turf, but it will be on my terms. Piece of cake.”
Elijah nodded. Rhett’s abilities still didn’t make sense to the historian, but Rhett seemed confident enough. And he preferred this plan to running in guns blazing. “I’ll talk to Rita. Chem thinks that she’d be willing to step in.”
“Want me to talk to her?” Rhett raised an eyebrow suggestively.
Elijah shook his head. “I’ll handle it.”
Crane placed his hands on the arms of his chair and slowly pushed himself to a standing position. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more use. My powers were never quite impressive, even in my prime, and I’m afraid that my prime left me decades ago. I’d only slow you down. But I’ll give you one last word. Don’t hesitate to do what needs to be done. The Guild is powerful, and they believe that they fight on the side of righteousness. There is nothing more dangerous than a zealot. Expect no mercy. Give none in return.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
If someone were to ask, Tim would say that he felt like a guy who had the flu, times ten, in the middle of running a marathon. But no one ever asked. Instead, they gave him the look reserved for the terminally ill. “You’re on your way out, buddy. I wish I could do something about it, but your numbers already been punched,” the look said.
Willa sat on the bed next to him, giving him the look for the first time ever.
At least she smells good, he thought.
“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get out of here,” Tim said as if it was still his job to offer courage to those around him.
There was only one person in the room that might make it out of this shit-show, and it wasn’t the geriatric mercenary.
Looking death in the face was surreal, the most threatening thing the human psyche could encounter. But after shaking hands with the reaper for over a decade, the grip specter had become part of the game. Tim’s advantage in life lay in accepting that possibility; death was always one misstep away. And even the best messed up eventually.
He had made peace with it.
Willa was far more concerned about Tim’s impending demise than he himself was.
Strangely, he had devoted very little time to what came after. Tim had plenty of friends who had “found religion” in the trenches. He wasn’t one of them. Those guys thought that making peace with a maker (and more importantly, the host at the eternal Air BnB) would make the process somehow easier.
But Tim wasn’t a gambling man. He didn’t buy into Pascal’s Wager or any other. He put stock only in what he could see with his own two eyes.
For the first time, however, he decided that giving the world beyond a few thoughts wouldn’t be such a bad idea. These morbid considerations had easily traceable origins. If the waning chemistry in his veins didn’t get him, the Guild surely would. Doubly screwed, if you will. With all his tough talk about death, the end had never been so certain. If he pulled out of this one, he’d reconsider his relationship to the guy in the sky everyone spent so much time talking about.
Willa passed the most forced smile he’d ever seen across the room. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, huh, Buffy?”
“Your nicknames need some work. Buffy’s not even a wizard.”
Tim wheezed out something like a laugh. “I know. But I’m running out of pop culture witches. The road of the smartass is a hard one to walk.”
“Well, maybe you need to get out more.”
“Yeah,” Tim said with a smile. “I’ll get right on that.”
Willa squeezed his thigh. It hurt, but he’d never tell her. “I know they’re probably overhearing this, but we need to talk strategy. The game has changed since the last time we spoke,” she said.
He pushed a smile onto his face. Judging from Willa’s response, it looked more like a grimace, which was ironic as the gesture was more for her comfort than anything else.
“I saw my grandfather.” Her eyes took on just a bit of a wet gloss.
“You mean the dead one, right? Don’t tell me you’re losing it too.”
“Maybe I am. But he’s here, with them—working with them. Last February, he faked his death. Said there’s something big happening. And he hoped that disappearing and joining back up with the Guild would ferret out those behind all the shit that’s been going down.”
“Geeze. What a mind fuck. You doing OK with it all?”
Willa nodded. “Honestly, I don’t know. My grandfather loves me. He’d die for me. But I don’t imagine he trusts me very much. And I don’t know if I can trust him.”
Tim pushed himself up onto his elbows. It took every ounce of effort. “Now what?”
“That’s why I’m here. Your trial is about to start. You’ll stand before the Guild leadership. I think there are about a dozen. My understanding is that it will be pretty short. My grandfather will address the assembly first, then he will call on anyone who wants to share on behalf of the accused.”
“Well at least I’ll get a chance to speak my mind,” Tim said.
“No way. I’ll do the talking. You don’t know these people, Tim. We need to do everything we can to save you. And—no offense—if you started talking they’d probably fry you on sight. I’m not sure they’d appreciate your unique sense of humor.”
Tim couldn’t withhold a laugh, which shot pain through his torso. “Sister, you’re pretty smart, but you lack a certain acuity for the obvious. I’m pretty much done here. If the Dungeons and Dragons crew won’t destroy me, Mother Nature will pick up the slack. But those robed bastards are out for blood, and something tells me they’re gonna get it one way or the other. Better me than you. There’s only one of us walking out of here, and it ain’t the one with a sausage between his legs.”
Willa smiled as a tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. “OK, Tim.”
“I need to do whatever it takes to clear you,” he said. “Can’t imagine you will make your own case any stronger by helping this dying dog.”
A knock interrupted them.
The door opened. A young wizard stood in the opening. Her expression showed that she too was shocked at how far Tim’s body had regressed. The clock was ticking, and the process had evidently quickened.
Willa tensed at the sight of the girl, but Tim placed his hand on her back. “It’s OK, Willa. Hermione here is coming to set me free, am I right?”
The girl glanced at Willa, then crossed the room to Tim’s bedside. “One better. I’m here to appoint you as head of the council. What do you think?”
Tim laughed again, causing more agony. “First thing I’d do is fire the warden. Then give you a new uniform.” The young girl smiled. He wished things would have gone down a different way. She would have gotten along just fine with his group of superfriends.
The girl reached down to grab his arm, but Tim held his hand up, palm out, and gave a wink. “I got this, kid.”
Walking to his death would be his last act of strength.
****
“Ad ordine libertas,” Edwin said. The crowd returned t
he greeting in unison.
Weil cleared his throat. “We have gathered today for a rare but important event: a hearing of the Council of Twelve. Timothy Ford stands accused of the perversion of magic, himself a walking abomination and a menace to all that is good and pure.” Edwin’s eyes swept the room and landed on Willa. “I need not remind you all that this hearing is not regarding the actions of Magician Willa Weil, though that consideration will occur soon enough.”
Tim assessment had been accurate. They were at something like an old farmhouse that had been converted into a stronghold worthy of the Michigan militia. A spacious barn, connected to the compound by a series of recent additions, served as the makeshift courtroom. Inside, rows of pews were lined up, like in an old country Baptist church. There were only a few robed figures sitting in the audience, but twelve ancient-looking wizards sat in a semi-circle before him. The ancient man at its center could have been Moses’s brother. Tim guessed that he was the grandmaster. The gathering looked like a normal social club, except for their strange attire and the fact that these folks were filled with magic powerful enough to flatten a small city. He wondered if he was the real menace to society.
He considered working this into his speech.
Tim tilted his head back and took in the rough cut rafters. A row of windows let in glimpses of moonlight. Edwin stood under a hayloft, facing his congregation. The blond giant who was part of the attack force sat at Tim’s side. The viking’s face lacked any hint of discernible emotion.
“For the extent of the Guild’s existence, we have navigated the delicate balance between justice and mercy. Ours is a tradition of order, and one that must be maintained for the good of all.” Edwin paused. “For we all know what danger disorder brings.”
Tim appreciated the gravity, but he hoped that Grandpa would just get on with it. There was only so much strength remaining in his broken body, and all of it would be necessary to make a case for Willa.
“Tim Ford has a story, like all of us, and it is necessary for us to consider the narrative to truly pass judgment,” Edwin said. He waved his hand in Tim’s direction. “Ford is a warrior and a mercenary. As a soldier with the U. S. Special Forces, Tim fought in what many would call honorable battle against foes overseas. This is difficult to judge. We do know that many of his unit’s actions could be called into question, but Ford worked under an authority—much the same as us. And he did so with courage and honor.”
This might not be so bad after all, Tim thought.
Edwin shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “At first blush, Tim Ford appears to be nothing other than a citizen willing to serve his country in a way that few do. But that is only the tip of the iceberg.”
Here we go…
“Mr. Ford, after his time in the service, felt empty. War had awoken a bloodlust in the man.”
Willa stood. “Objection, um, your honor. This is…well, speculation.”
Edwin’s eyes turned toward his kin. Tim watched them soften. He saw love and even admiration in them. Ford knew that Edwin wanted the best for Willa, and for the world, really. But that protection required removing the blemish that was Tim Ford from the face of the earth.
“This isn’t a courtroom, Willa. You can’t really object. Besides, we know all of this to be true.”
A stifled chuckle spread through the crowd.
Willa’s face reddened.
Tim understood his situation. The vote had already been cast, and everyone in the room knew it. Most were hardly listening. Their show of fairness and order were mere formalities, deference to the tradition they so often blathered on about. It was why he knew he had to use every minute he had to sway them in their considerations of the next meeting—the trial of Willa Weil.
He looked around the room and locked eyes with “Hermione.” Her face confirmed his suspicions.
“Where was I?” Edwin asked no one in particular. “After his tours, Mr. Ford tried to settle down. He floated from dead end job to dead end job. Nothing stuck.”
There was that bouncer thing. I didn’t hate that, Tim thought.
“So, that’s when Ford joined forces with a deadly organization. The tattoo on his shoulder marks his allegiance to the paramilitary organization known as Blackbow.” Edwin paused, letting the name of the company settle over the crowd.
Tim could feel the air leave the room.
Edwin continued. “It was with these mercenaries that Tim Ford committed atrocity after atrocity, mindlessly doing his masters’ bidding—not for love of country or neighbor, but for the wages they paid out.” Edwin paused, increasing the tension. “And also to curb the desire that lives inside of him: the craving for violence. And that wasn’t enough. After returning home, he used a mixture of dark magic and even darker science to continue his reign of terror, attacking and torturing residents of the city for his own enjoyment.”
Tim’s chin pressed against his chest, and he inspected his calloused hands. For just a moment, it struck him how the degeneration of his body left his hands virtually as they had always been—strong, calloused. Everything the wizard had said was true. His hands had inflicted pain and death beyond count. As far as Tim knew, his victim’s deserved what was coming, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he thought of Anna and the way she looked up at him in her dying moments.
That memory alone justified the Guild’s condemnation.
“Tim Ford is not a man but a monster that has committed crimes against humanity. And it is up to this council to purge the abomination from our midst.”
Edwin paced across the makeshift stage and stood in front of his chair. “It is good and right and just to hear from the accused before passing final judgment. Mr. Ford, will you be speaking on your own behalf?”
Tim gripped the arms of his chair.
He channeled any energy that remained in his dying body into his legs.
Then he heard a whisper.
“Silence is all we dread.
There's Ransom in a Voice –
But Silence is Infinity.
Himself have not a face.”
Tim Ford opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.
“No, Master Magician. I will be speaking on his account,” Willa said, getting to her feet.
Damn it, Willa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“It’ll work. It has to work.”
Chem had never seen the historian look so serious, and that included the time the two men debated the work of Howard Zinn. Elijah’s face was drawn tight, accentuating the wrinkles of a person twice his age. Sleepless nights had taken their toll.
“Maybe. But either way, I’m not going,” Chem said.
Elijah’s head snapped to attention. “Wait. What?”
“Why do you do that?” Chem asked.
“Do what?”
“It’s the professor in you. You always ask me to repeat myself when you don’t like the answer.” Chem stared at his shoes. He had been trying to find the right time to break the news. “I said, I’m not going on your little mission.”
The tiny living room that they had shared for the last six months grew a bit smaller. Elijah shot off the couch and stood over Chem. “What do you mean you’re not going?”
“There you go again.” Chem grinned. Elijah didn’t budge. “Listen. We’ve rehearsed this so many times—for an academic, you can be pretty dense. I’m a freakin’ lab rat. Have I ever asked you to run a quantitative analysis on Tim’s serum? No. Because you’d be no good at it. We all have our roles and I don’t belong in the heat of battle. When the fight comes to me, I’ve never run away. But I’m sure as shit not running at it. Not to mention, you always need me when you come back. Look, I know that Tim and Willa are in a bad place. They need our help. But this ain’t no action movie, and I’m not going to be the black dude in the horror film. In real life, you keep your only doctor off the front lines. I’ll be here when you get them out, but I’m not going in.”
Elijah stepped back. The tension in the roo
m was cut in half, which still left plenty. Chem admired the way Elijah thought, and he knew the man was processing at the very moment. Analytical reasoning is what held them together. The combined IQ in the room was staggering, and Chem knew that the historian tended not to waste his.
“You’re right.”
Chem exhaled. “What did you say?”
“Fuck you.” Elijah smiled. “But be ready. God only knows the shape Tim will be in when we get back, let alone the rest of us.”
Chem gave a salute and pushed himself out of the chair. Placing his hand on Elijah’s shoulder, he said, “You don’t have to do this either. Let someone else deal with it for a change.”
“Like who?”
“Hell if I know. The police? The National Guard? The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? Normal people don’t do this shit.”
“That’s right,” Elijah said, inspecting the scars on his forearms. “But if you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly normal people anymore.”
Chem ran his hand over three days’ worth of scruff. “Speak for yourself. I’m just some poor black kid that went to college and made right through hard work.”
Elijah’s smile turned into a laugh. “Your dad was an attorney, and you’re a dropout that patches up drug dealers for cash.”
“Shit Elijah, you’re killing my American Dream narrative.”
****
Chem pulled the vial from the vortex mixer and set in on the lab bench next to two others and a clean syringe. If Elijah’s plan actually worked, and they beat him back, they would know what to do with them. But if they did arrive before he returned, Chem wouldn’t be able to record the results. His hand slid over the composition book. Its cover was marked: TF11. Chem had spent the last several months filling books with obsessively detailed observations and measurements—capturing every change in body function from his most important specimen. A familiar sense of guilt spread through Chem’s veins. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care for Tim as a person, but the serum flowing through his blood represented a lifetime of scientific effort. He wanted Tim and Willa to be safe, but he needed to get Ford back in the lab to finish his study. Withdrawal effects and the possibility of subsequent reintroduction of the serum were the last pieces of the puzzle. Once Chem could record that data his experiment would be ready for phase two.
