Got To Be A Hero

by Paul Duffau

“Because I don’t go there, sir.” His tone was polite on the surface, but with a sharpened edge below that discouraged more questions. “I go to Hitchings. It’s a tech charter school.”

  Mitch put his glass on the countertop. He faced Kenzie.

  “Thanks for the water,” he said, turning to the doorway, “but I should get going.”

  Kenzie set her glass next to his. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  This earned a reproving frown from Jackson. Kenzie glared at him and silently followed Mitch through the dining room, living room, and out the door.

  Outside, she apologized. “It’s his job, ever since, the . . .” She hesitated, uncertain how to phrase it. “The, uh, attack.”

  “Sucks living under a microscope.”

  Something in the way he said it made her search his face, and he was the one to avert his gaze. Her breath caught in her chest.

  “I have a private lesson tomorrow at the studio,” Kenzie said, rushing the words together. “You could, maybe, swing by after?”

  Mitch’s mouth gaped open, and surprise lit up his face.

  “Me? Um . . . sure.” His fingers fidgeted with the pull cord of his hoodie. “When?”

  “After school?”

  He nodded.

  Kenzie gave him directions, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder to make sure that Jackson wasn’t in earshot.

  “I can find it,” said Mitch. He scanned the yard and shoved his hands into the front pouch of the sweatshirt. He stood, out of place and unsure how to proceed.

  Kenzie indicated the door and relieved him of making a decision. “I got to head inside, or Jackson’ll be out here in a minute.”

  “Yeah, sure, I get it.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  Mitch bobbed his head and ducked as he walked out into the misty rain.

  Kenzie watched him go.

  Mitch glanced back as he reached the sidewalk, and Kenzie gave a half wave, fingers curling over.

  She turned to the door and found Jackson watching her.

  “That’s kind of creepy,” she said as she opened the door and reentered the house.

  “Tell your dad,” was his reply.

  Kenzie thought that was a pretty crappy idea.

  As she walked back to the kitchen, she started figuring out how to get around Jackson so Mitch could visit her.

  Chapter 15

  Mitch stood next to the Camaro and stared out across Lake Washington Boulevard to the stately houses made gloomy by the mist. Behind him, a Mercedes hissed by on the wet asphalt, the black paint of the body work in glistening contrast to the manicured lawns that fell down the hillside to the asphalt.

  He put both hands on the roof, the cold paint slick under his palms. A deep breath and a long exhalation didn’t help. Everything still seemed topsy-turvy.

  His imagination re-created the scene in Kenzie’s kitchen, and he watched the weaving of her hands. Her sudden mortification surprised him and, at the same time, electrified him. An aching need inside threatened to take over. He stifled the feeling, buried it with the other emotions that would hurt if he brought them into the light.

  It wouldn’t be ignored, a heavy lump in his chest, squeezing his heart.

  He curled his fingers and scraped his nails over the faded paint. His pinkie fingernail caught on a chipped spot in the paint job. This much felt real.

  The smell of the grass and the rain, they were real.

  The rain was real, and in Seattle a constant, he thought, then remembered the blue skies that had framed Kenzie’s face the day he raced out into the street. Almost constant, he thought, with occasional bouts of stunning clarity, and deep inside, the observation surprised him.

  The lump grew, and he inhaled until his ribs stretched his skin. He held the air inside for the count of three. It came out in a rush when he let go.

  It helped some, not much.

  Kenzie wanted him to meet her tomorrow.

  The lump in his chest froze into a solid block.

  Does this qualify as a date?

  His brain stopped, grinding to a halt like a computer instructed to process cheese. Data went in, hit the processing center, got blasted by the concept of a date with a real girl. No, not a real girl. Well, okay, Kenzie was a real girl, and pretty, too, but not like the other girls. Those he watched from across a room or ignored because he was not going to humiliate himself by asking them out.

  Kenzie was different.

  Mitch made an effort to force his thoughts into logical patterns, but he could not hold on to them. Violently, he shook his head until droplets of water sprayed off his hood. Other than making his neck hurt, nothing happened. His mind continued to dart in scattered directions.

  He’d meet her—

  What time?

  She said after school.

  Her school? His school?

  Why didn’t he ask?

  There were lots of things he hadn’t asked her.

  Chicken, he thought, and agreed with himself. He didn’t want to know, especially now.

  He had a date. Why mess with a good thing?

  Hopeless, his internal watchdog said, walking away from the mushiness of his thoughts.

  A sharp pokey spike shattered the lump in his chest. Not hopeless.

  Hopeful.

  It scared the crap out of him.

  Chapter 16

  The rattle from the garage door opening vibrated up through Kenzie’s bedroom floor to announce the arrival of one of her parents. Kenzie ignored it, gazing out her window. High above the hillside behind her house, a spark of sapphire blue sky burst through the late-afternoon gray. Through the opening, light played down to the ground, the rain at the edges shimmering, caught by the rays.

  Kenzie exhaled in a long, depressed breath.

  He won’t show, she thought to herself. Heat rose on her cheeks again as she glanced at her hands. She repeated the gesture, without the focus needed to summon the magic, a swirl of her hands leading up to the crook of a finger, bent to summon, urging Mitch to come closer. She sensed a wrongness at the end of the movement, and repeated it, flattening her right hand as the left began the dance to the call forth, and then, relaxing and letting intuition guide her, folded her hands between her breasts and over her heart.

  Rumors abounded in the Family of portents and hidden spells, and especially of wizards who refused to honor the magic. The rogues would turn the magic on the ordinary, taking what they wanted from them. That was how the Wilders got discovered, pushing the magic too far, inviting discovery. There were rules, set up to protect the other wizards.

  The Family relied on stealth to hide their assets, both in terms of wealth and influence, never letting any of the wizards gain so much of either that it sparked interest. When you could manipulate others in subtle sorcery, acquiring a bankroll took very little effort. It did not take much to influence people into deals that were consistently profitable. Money left more time for magic. Everyone agreed with that rule and policed everyone else to make sure nobody got too greedy.

  The strictest rules applied to using magic on others, bewitching them into doing your bidding. Wasting magic for personal gratification. Kenzie heard the whispers of the scandalous stories, of women luring men into bed, of men doing the same. They targeted ordinary people so they wouldn’t get caught. Belinda, the blond Wilder who had blasted her with the spell at the most recent Gathering, featured prominently in the gossip.

  She had made her living with her magic, they said. No one ever said how, but they would nod, and the way their accusing eyes would dart in her direction made it clear.

  Belinda, they said, had made a very good living.

  Kenzie turned with her face to the distance.

  It would be so easy. . . .

  A shudder ran down her back, and she squashed the repugnant thought.

  No, not that way. An ache filled her. In her mind, she pictured Mitch, standing close, near enough for her to lay her head on his chest, hear his heartbeat,
and feel his arms around her. Because he wanted to, and she wanted to, not because either of them had to.

  Footsteps clicked in the hallway, and Kenzie opened her eyes and unwrapped her arms, which had unconsciously folded around her. She turned as the door to the room opened. Her elegantly dressed mother leaned into the room, one foot still in the hallway.

  “I called a Gathering for this evening,” said Sasha. “Please be ready by seven, okay?”

  Kenzie raised an eyebrow and then shrugged.

  “Sure.”

  She turned back to look for the blue patch, but the gray mass of clouds had swallowed it.

  Chapter 17

  The garage door closed on the gray gloom outside as Mitch stared through the dusty windshield of the Camaro. The door of the car creaked as he popped it open and again when he closed it. The garage door, heavy wood, did not creak anymore, not since he oiled the hinges. It opened smoothly and silently.

  He waited, listening. The house around him felt tired in the drizzly weather. Nobody else was home. He moved into and through the kitchen, mentally comparing the dingy Formica with the marble, the battered cabinetry with the polished wood at Kenzie’s. An odor wafted from the dirty dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink, and for a change, it bothered him.

  The color of the day filtered in on the filmy glass of the windows, leaving the inside of the house depressed. The light petered out at the hallway, and Mitch traversed the near-dark to the door of his room, opened it, and entered a deeper shade of melancholy.

  He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed it onto the top of the dresser. It hit, slid, and fell to the floor. Something white from the dresser’s surface fluttered down next to it.

  Mitch bent to pick up the worn brown wallet and saw his handwriting on the torn slip of paper. He pinned it with a thumb against the flat of the faux leather as he retrieved both items from the floor. He placed them on the top of the dresser, careful not to pitch them since they’d slide off again.

  The paper didn’t let go and clung to his thumb.

  I hate the gray, he thought ritually, without wasting extra emotion on it, and peeled the paper loose.

  He stared at the phone number.

  Mitch knew exactly who the number should reach, and he was equally sure that calling it would be a mistake. He didn’t know who the hell Mercury was, but he still remembered the grilling he’d gotten yesterday from the unnamed supervisor about every aspect of his meeting with the fake cop the day of the attack. Based on the reactions of the real cops, Mercury had to be some kind of fake.

  Still, Mercury had treated him better than the SPD dude had.

  Mitch had given up the business card, of course, and more. He shook his head about how much he’d blabbered to the cop, the words tripping out as he tried to answer the questions. Meanwhile, Hunter had lodged himself in a corner, staring at all of them, whites showing around his irises. Hunter had been okay—Mitch thought he was okay, at least—when he left, almost running over the cops in the process of vacating.

  Curiosity finally overcame his good sense, and he pulled out his phone, dialing with his thumb. It hovered over the button to initiate the call. Reflexively, he jabbed down and lifted the phone to his ear, hoping that no one would answer.

  One ring, two, three . . .

  “Museum for Magical Arts,” Mercury’s voice announced, “a repository for learning about the craft. We cater to the gifted amongst us, as well as those too curious for their own good. Each talisman comes with a money-back guarantee, but spells are not returnable. Books are available for loan, but we’re in no way responsible for any misuse of the materials, anticipated or unanticipated side effects, or liability for your personal safety.”

  “Fracking joke number,” muttered Mitch, though bile rose with disappointment at the recording. He hit the button to terminate the call. The screen faded to black in the dim light of his room, but the voice continued like the phone was set on speaker, warmth replacing the practiced ease of the sales greeting.

  “Since this is the private line, though, you don’t care about any of that, do you? Hello, Mitch.”

  “Um, hello.” The sudden transition confused him, plus, now that he was talking to Mercury—how was he talking to Mercury?—he didn’t know what he really wanted. He turned the phone over and considered removing the battery. Would it make a difference?

  “I presume that it is safe for me to guess that you’re not a wizard?”

  Mitch deflected. “I gave your number to the real cops.”

  “No, Mitch, you gave them a number, not the number. Only you could reach me this way.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s important for you and me to meet again. You’ve been very busy.”

  Mitch popped the case off the phone, removed the back cover, and checked the battery.

  “Mitch?”

  “Yeah?” The skin on his face felt tight and numb.

  “Relax, kid.” The phone fell silent for a moment. “Trust your instincts. You just need to have a little faith in yourself.”

  “I don’t need a pep talk!”

  A sigh emerged from the phone and dissipated. “Fine. You said you were never lucky, right?”

  “I’m not.”

  “How do you tell good luck from bad luck?”

  The son of a . . .

  “By the bad shit that happens.” Mitch’s words came from between clenched teeth. “That’s how you can tell, when everything goes wrong, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it—”

  “This time there’s something you can do to stop it,” Mercury said, his voice rising hard over Mitch’s.

  Mitch fell silent, and Mercury continued. “We need to meet. I would not ask if it weren’t important, Mitch. And sooner would be better than later.”

  “None of this fits together.”

  Frustration ripped the words from Mitch, and he winced. It sounded too close to a whine.

  “It does, trust me, but you don’t have everything you need to recognize that. You only have part of the pattern.”

  “And you can give me the whole thing?”

  The silence lasted several seconds. Mitch willed Mercury to respond. A strange excitement built, mixed with fear. He needed answers.

  Mercury’s words were a letdown.

  “No,” said the older man, regret filtering through. “I probably would, if I knew the whole thing myself, but I don’t either. I just know a lot more than you do.”

  “Probably?”

  “Mitch, this is a limited-time offer. Will you come meet?”

  He could almost feel the pressure of Mercury’s green eyes on him, boring in, as if he were asking a different question entirely. He remembered the old man’s comment about running to the sound of the guns and decided. In the instant of deciding, he felt something irrevocable change, deep inside.

  “Where?”

  Mercury gave him an address. Mitch recognized the general area. Close to the studio he was meeting Kenzie at. The coincidence made him suspicious. “When?”

  “Yesterday would have been better, tomorrow is not too late.”

  Mitch grimaced. He wasn’t going to get any straight answers from Mercury. “I’ve got school tomorrow and a . . . another person to meet first. I can be there at five?” The inflection rose at the end, making the statement a question.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” There was a click and Mercury was gone.

  Mitch held the phone tight. With his right hand, he pulled the battery, but he suspected that it didn’t make a difference.

  The pieces might not fit, but he was starting to at least see the shapes of them.

  Chapter 18

  The Glade was as small as Kenzie had ever seen it and the moon dominated the horizon. The scent of lilacs floated on the air this time. The Glade presented itself in beguilingly different ways every time she came. The size she understood, a function of the occupancy and position of the wizards, but the bloo
ms seemed random. She meandered toward the training circle, stopping along the brook to scoop a handful of sweet-tasting water. She let the excess dribble through her fingers, the droplets catching the bright light of the moon as they fell like a shower of tinkling diamonds back to the softly flowing stream.

  To her surprise, old Harold was at the circle, hands folded under his long robe. He had his back to her, and his head tilted down. In this pose like a statue of a wise man, he greeted her with a serene, “Hello, Miss McKenzie.”

  “Where is everyone?” The rest of the teaching circle lay slumbering.

  Harold spoke with his back still turned. “Special session, I think. Only the council members were invited.”

  Kenzie studied him. “If you weren’t invited, why are you here?”

  “I like it here.”

  Made sense, thought Kenzie. She liked it here, too, but the short notice for the meeting so close on the heels of the conversation between her parents made her nervous.

  “What are they meeting about?” She tried to keep it casual, but her words came out forced and needy.

  Harold turned to face her. “You don’t know?”

  He studied her face. Kenzie held her features still, knowing that the answer wrote itself in her lack of surprise at the meeting. Sympathy lines etched into the creases along Harold’s forehead. “I see,” he said.

  Involuntarily, Kenzie’s lips formed a hard line. It took a deep breath to force them to relax. She changed the subject.

  “So what do you do here? I mean, all by yourself?”

  “Practice. Play.” He waved a hand, and a golden glow appeared a foot in front of her. He flicked his wrist, and the glow danced around Kenzie. Distracted by the motion, she missed the next gesture. The globe of light expanded, engulfed her, and bathed her in the warmth of a summer evening. Across from her, Harold smiled.

  The spell faded from the outside edges into her, leaving a peacefulness behind where the anxiety had been.

  “How did you do that?”

  Harold laughed. “It’s a parlor trick, that’s all.”