The Wizard of Sante Fe

by Simon Hawke

  "No it won't," Modred replied. "Trust me."

  Dr. Sebastian Makepeace, Professor of Pre-Collapse History, poet, gourmet, raconteur, international criminal, government spy, and fairy—no, not that kind—stood in the center of the penthouse living room, all three hundred pounds of him, dressed in a voluminous black leather trench coat that looked big enough to make a sail for a Roman galley, a black and white checked houndstooth sport jacket, green wool slacks, a yellow silk shirt, and a scarlet scarf tied around his neck, Flemish style. His black beret was set at a jaunty angle, his long white hair cascading down from beneath it as he bounced and swayed in the center of the room to the tune of the Dance of the Polovtsi by Borodin.

  All around him, various items of clothing and personal articles danced and swirled in midair in graceful arabesques, like some explosion in a department store captured in slow-motion. Dishes and silverware twirled through the air and stacked themselves carefully in padded packing crates. Shirts waltzed with each other, dipped, and folded themselves neatly inside suitcases. Socks came scampering across the carpeting and somersaulted in the air, rolling themselves up into balls and dropping into the bags. In the center of this surreal, magical flurry of activity, Makepeace stood like a conductor leading an orchestra, a look of majestic serenity on his face as he gestured with his arms and scat-sang in time to the music.

  As the suitcases and crates became filled, they rose into the air and, in time to the music, seemed to dance on invisible strings, heading across the living room, out the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, and over the balcony railing, floating high above the city over Central Park. One by one, the paintings on the walls followed them, and the pieces of furniture, even the beds and sectional sofa, and, finally, the stereo and speakers, the music still playing. Then little Archimedes followed, with a high-pitched cry of "Wheeee! This is fun!"

  Then, with a flourish, Makepeace flung one arm out straight before him, the other angled back, in a pose reminiscent of Mary Martin playing Peter Pan, and, despite his huge bulk, rose gracefully and effortlessly into the air, to follow the bizarre parade across the sky.

  A short while later the door was broken in by a squad of B.O.T. agents with their weapons drawn. They found nothing but bare walls.

  "What the hell is going on down there?" asked Rosowitz, standing at the balcony wall of the outdoor lounge atop the La Fonda Hotel.

  "Weirdest damn thing I ever saw," said Stanley.

  They were watching a steady procession of thaumagenetically engineered animals streaming from the plaza and scattering in all directions. The streets below were filled with people, many of them attracted by this phenomenon, yet kept at a distance by the police barricades and the mounted officers. Many of the onlookers, in town for the fiesta, apparently believed this was an early part of the festivities, some sort of "animal parade," and they were enjoying the show.

  "Thaumagene vigilantes," Megan said.

  "What?" said Rosowitz.

  "Something that Loomis and Ramirez apparently cooked up," said Megan. "Half the adepts and pet owners in town are screaming about it, the other half think it's a great idea. Sending thaumagenes out to patrol the streets as auxiliaries to the police."

  "You've gotta be kidding," Stanley said.

  "Nope. It's a ludicrous idea, but at least it makes them look as if they're doing something." She held up her portable radio and spoke into it. "Is everybody in position?"

  One by one, the other agents checked in from various locales in the downtown area.

  "What makes you so sure it'll be downtown?" asked Rosowitz.

  "This is where all the people are," she said. "The fiesta doesn't start until tomorrow night, but there's already plenty of people out celebrating and it's my guess they'll make their move tonight."

  "Why tonight?" asked Stanley.

  "Because they know we're onto them and they'll make their move tonight instead of waiting for the fiesta to get rolling. Grabbing Ramirez today was the tip-off."

  "Only they did take him to the eye doctor," Rosowitz said. "And when Stein called the guy up and checked, he said that Ramirez had been blinded in some sort of thaumaturgic accident, a spell he was experimenting with had gone wrong."

  "And you believed it?" Megan said wryly. "Use your head, Chris. There were at least three of them ganging up on him, maybe more. You think Ramirez had a chance? They blinded him, then put him under a spell so he'd believe he'd done it to himself, and stuck him in a hospital to get him out of the way and throw Loomis off the track."

  "Only Loomis has cops watching the house."

  "Yeah, parked right out front, where everybody in the world can see them," Megan said with contempt. "And I was starting to feel some respect for that man." She shook her head. "By now, they must know that Loomis figured it out by following my lead. They know we're onto them, as well. So tonight's going to be the night. They'll try to hit, then run. And right here, downtown, is where they're going to do it. Bet on it."

  "We are betting on it," said Stanley. "I just hope you're right on this one, Megan."

  "I know what I'm doing," she snapped.

  Rosowitz and Stanley exchanged uncertain looks.

  Wulfgar had been shocked by what he had encountered at the house on Declovina Street. After all these centuries, he was still alive. Gorlois. The last surviving member of the Council of the White. The only one who had not taken part in the spell that had confined them, who had retained his corporeal form so that he could place the accursed runestones in their location above the pit, then seal the underground chamber it was in for thousands of years behind tons of fallen rock. But then, Wulfgar thought, he should have anticipated the possibility of Gorlois still being alive after all that time. He was, after all, a member of the Council. Only the most powerful of the self-styled "white mages" had been part of the Council and they would not have fallen as easily to the humans as did their weaker counterparts.

  Still, Gorlois must have fallen at some point, because in a sense, he was no longer physically alive. His spirit had left its body to reside within the boy. There was no way of knowing how many hosts Gorlois had possessed over the years, but the fact was that his spirit had survived and Wulfgar could not understand how he could have sensed the presence of Ambrosius in the boy and not Gorlois. Two of them! Both of them possessing one body! Three spirit entities in one physical being! The boy was no mere boy, Wulfgar had known that, but he was much more than he had thought he was. With the combined powers of Gorlois and the half-breed mage within him, he had to be incredibly strong.

  Wulfgar had thought that he had killed him, and he should have killed him, that blast was strong enough to burn a hole clear through him. Yet, the sight of that hellish white glow emanating from him, burning brighter and brighter, could have only meant one thing. A spirit transmogrification. He had sensed the presence of his ancient enemy then. Gorlois, a true immortal, a mage, a member of the Council, had released the full strength of his life force into the dying body and soul of the boy. Wulfgar had known that if he had remained there one moment longer, he would have found himself facing not only the avatars, who were racing to the scene, but the transmogrified being who was being born before his very eyes from the spirits that had possessed the boy. He was not about to face it. He wasn't ready.

  He had returned to his apartment, stunned and furious with himself for not having anticipated what had happened. Briefly, he had considered leaving Santa Fe at once, but though there was much to argue for it, it meant conceding defeat and he could not bring himself to do that. He had spent a long time in preparation for this confrontation and he knew that he was ready. He would not allow the reappearance of Gorlois after all this time to throw him. Besides, to leave now would be to waste a golden opportunity. The city was in a high state of excitement and anxiety. The deaths that he had brought about had frightened many people, but at the same time, they had given an edge to the festive atmosphere of the fiesta that was about to begin. People were already out r
oaming the streets in crowds, both locals and out-of-towners, basking in the illusory safety of their numbers and wondering with a perverse fascination if they might be rubbing shoulders with the killer.

  There were elements in town, those who stood to lose a great deal if the attendance of the fiesta suffered, who had done as much as possible to play down the threat and had eagerly given their opinions to the media, claiming that the numbers of people in the streets at night and the increased vigilance of the police would keep the threat at bay. And in one of the local bars, there was even a pool betting on whether or not any murders would take place during the fiesta and, if so, how many. To leave the city at this point might, indeed, be the safest course, but it would also be cowardly, especially since the climate of feeling for what he planned to do could not be better. And unlike the others who had gone down in ignominious defeat, Wulfgar was ready for this. He had spent a long time getting ready, preparing a spell that was not only unprecedented, but a strategy to accompany it that was exquisite in its irony.

  He had studied the humans. He had learned from them. There was much to be said for the old knowledge, but there was something to be said for the knowledge that humans had discovered, too. Wulfgar had devised a strategy that would unite the elements of both. He would use magic to distract the avatars as it channeled strength to him, but he would use human technology to destroy them.

  The spell he planned to use was dangerous in the extreme and they would not expect it, for it had never been done before. He had practiced it, in stages, over a long period of time, gradually building up his already formidable ability and confidence and concentration. It was a spell of his own devising, a masterwork of necromancy. It entailed the conjuring of a demonic entity, and then the splitting of that entity in two, so that his animated subconscious would be bifurcated, able to strike in two different locations simultaneously. That, in itself, would require tremendous energy and concentration, but that was not yet the truly dangerous part. Because at the crucial moment, when the splitting of his subconscious surrogates had achieved its desired purpose of splitting up the avatars . . . he would let go.

  He would release control completely, freeing the twinned demon of his dark side, and concentrating solely on his corporeal self, he would choose his moment and strike. The danger was in what would happen in that moment. He knew that he would have enough of himself left to make his body do his bidding. If he chose his moment with careful precision, if he timed it perfectly, he felt certain that he would succeed, for there was no way that they could be prepared for it. However, there was a danger if he remained in such a metaphysically fragmented state for more than a few brief moments. The demon entities might take on separate lives of their own, part of him, yet forever apart from him, leaving him a weakened, fragmented version of his former self.

  Yet, if he succeeded, and he felt confident that he would, the avatars would be dealt a crippling blow from which they would be unable to recover. The surviving Dark Ones would then flock to him for his leadership and together they would easily prevail over the remaining avatars. For, unlike the others, he would not make the mistake of trying to take them all on at once. It was what they expected, for it was what all the others had attempted to do. They expected him to take advantage of the crowds occasioned by the fiesta that was about to begin and cast a powerful spell that would claim many lives at once, giving him a massive infusion of life force energy that he could turn against them. Only that was not what he was going to do. He would use his twinned demonic entities to distract them and catch them by surprise. They would be forced to divide their strength to pursue the demons. He would then choose one of them and he would strike in a manner that they could not possibly expect.

  Beside him, on the floor where he sat naked beneath his long black robes, lay a short-barreled .12-gauge shotgun with a pistol grip instead of a stock and a matching grip attached to the pump mechanism. "Assault grips," the dealer had called them. They would, he had assured him when he bought the weapon, allow him to maintain a firm and easy grip on the shotgun and cycle the action rapidly. The dealer had called it a "riotgun," extolling the virtues of its destructive capabilities and its easily concealable size. It was, thought Wulfgar, highly functional and elegantly simple, a testament to human ingenuity. A fitting weapon to bring down one of the avatars, causing damage so extensive and death so instantaneous that even the runestones would be helpless to prevent it. He would first use the weapon on his chosen victim, then blast the slain avatar's runestone into fragments and the spell of the Living Triangle would be broken. The two remaining runestones would never be able to call forth the full power of the spell and he could then pursue and destroy them at his leisure.

  He practically trembled with anticipation. For hours now, he had been concentrating, emptying his mind of all extraneous thoughts, achieving a meditative state of calm and isolation. Now he was ready. He began the spell.

  After the plaza had emptied of animals, the police removed the barricades and people started wandering through the square, sitting on the benches or on the grass to watch others strolling by, or walking on the paths or gathering in small groups, particularly the young people, and playing radios or guitars. Many people simply strolled along the sidewalks around the plaza, looking into shop windows and examining the displays of Indian jewelry, handwoven rugs, paintings, and ceramics, and the bars, cafés, and restaurants in the area rapidly filled up to capacity.

  Gomez sat in the front seat between Loomis and Modred. Billy and Kira sat in the back, Billy holding Ramses in his lap. Loomis had never met Billy before, so he knew nothing of his transformation. They had simply introduced him as Billy Slade. Loomis had asked only question. Was he the "third one"? When they answered yes, Loomis knew exactly what they meant. Or, at least, he thought he knew. He had assumed that Billy was the bearer of the third runestone. He didn't know that Modred was also Wyrdrune and that he bore two stones, one hidden beneath his shirt.

  To disguise his appearance, since there was still an A.P.B. out on him, Modred wore a hat, a jacket with a turned-up collar, and dark glasses. It was not the most effective of disguises, but then what police officer would expect to see a wanted criminal sitting in the front seat of a patrol car with Loomis? In the event that anyone did happen to recognize him, Loomis would claim that he had just arrested him. It was better, Modred had decided, not to risk confusing Loomis by letting him in on his dual aspect at this late stage. Besides, he had a good reason why he didn't want Loomis to see Wyrdrune.

  "I don't know about this plan," said Loomis, nervously pulling on a cigarette. "I keep thinking of flaws in it. The necromancer's not going to be out where anyone can see him. He'll probably be locked up in a room inside a house or an apartment. How will the thaumagenes know?"

  "Don't underestimate the thaumagenes," said Gomez. "Their senses are highly acute. A lot of pet owners put in special doors for them, so they'll be able to get into the houses that way. Or they can use open windows, balconies, rooftops . . . even if they can't get inside, they can get to where they can hear most of what's going on in there."

  "What if there's nothing for them to hear?" asked Loomis.

  "There will be," Modred said. "The appearance of a demon can be fairly noisy, usually accompanied by a sound of rushing wind, sometimes even a small thunderclap, and the sound of the demon itself. It might not be loud enough to be heard outside the house, but a thaumagene's senses will easily pick it up."

  "What if they don't get there in time?" asked Loomis. "I mean, what if the necromancer has already conjured up the demon before they arrive?"

  "It's possible," said Kira. "There are a lot of ways this whole thing could go wrong. But think positive. Maybe we'll get lucky."

  Loomis sighed. "We sure as hell could use some luck."

  "You might as well try to relax," said Modred. "This could take a while."

  "I don't know what the worst part is," said Loomis, "the waiting or knowing that you'll zap out of here the m
oment it goes down and I won't know what the hell is going on. Look, if it comes down, why can't you take me with you?"

  "We've already discussed that," Modred interrupted him. "Teleporting you along with us is out of the question. It would be too risky for you."

  "That's what I'm paid for," Loomis said.

  "I understand that," Modred said, "but the truth is, you'd only be in the way. Now we've studied the map of the city as well as possible and we're reasonably certain by now that we can teleport to almost any location with a minimum of risk, but there will still be risk and that risk will only be magnified by bringing you along. To some extent, an adept can 'feel' his way through a teleportation, but only to some extent. Teleporting someone else along with you always increases the risk unless you're exactly sure of where you're going and what's there. Suppose we teleported and you wound up being materialized in a spot that was already occupied by someone or something else?"

  "Oh," said Loomis uneasily. "I hadn't thought of that."

  "The most important part that you can play comes after," said Modred, "in devising a reasonably plausible story for what happened."

  "Oh, don't worry, I'll manage that okay," said Loomis. "It's the 'before' part that worries me. And I don't like that we haven't been able to locate any of those Bureau agents." He snorted. "To think that I was looking forward to the Bureau taking over this case! Instead of being helpful, they've turned into a wild card. That Leary is a real piece of work."

  "You like her, too, huh?" Kira said wryly.

  "I know the type," said Loomis sourly. "I've known a few cops like her in my time. They're so convinced they're right that they develop tunnel vision and just plain don't see anything that doesn't go along with their preconceived notions or their interpretation of the evidence. Someone like that can foul up a case something terrible. Right now, they're probably sitting around here somewhere, monitoring the police band and just waiting to see what comes down so they can waltz in and tromp all over it."