Power Mage 3

by Hondo Jinx

  “If ever,” Remi added.

  “Never,” Callie whispered.

  “I’m with her,” Frankie said.

  “It is an interesting proposition, husband,” Sage said, “but one that would only make sense after you find and master the items your parents left you, unlock the book, open your strands, develop your abilities, and learn enough about the Tiger Mage to prepare the perfect trap.”

  Brawley grinned. “So you’re saying I need another day or two.”

  “Very funny, cowboy,” Nina said. “Now let’s stop flapping our lips and get inside.”

  “Where are we?” he asked, still disoriented and trying to shake off the persistent clanging of his danger senses.

  “Trucker’s Paradise,” Nina said. “World-famous pie awaits!”

  The parking lot had that eerie vibe turnpike stops so often radiate late at night. Idling trucks hedged the windswept openness. Shadowy figures came and went, people with no business crossing paths thrust by fate and hunger and full bladders into sudden and fleeting juxtaposition. Everything thrummed with impermanence and subtle menace.

  Don’t get weird, Brawley thought as he crossed the lot. He was rattled by the dream and rankled by his echoing danger sense.

  The lot was surprisingly full for the hour, and when they went inside, the place was uncannily packed, most of the seats taken up by truckers, drunks, and a surprising number of families. Parents went nonchalantly about their business, mostly ignoring kids who also went nonchalantly about their business, hooting and making their booths look like the aftermath of a category 4 hurricane.

  The hostess led Brawley and the girls to a big table in the back. People looked up at them as they passed, which was natural enough, Brawley supposed. After all, it isn’t every night you see a cowboy leading a pack of five gorgeous women into a restaurant.

  Nina and Sage sat beside each other. Remi and Frankie sat across from them. Callie, looking small and lonely, sat at one end. Brawley took the other end, which suited him fine, since it put his back to the wall and his face to the main dining area.

  Brawley double-checked his pistols and mags and made sure his arms were loaded with force. Then he opened the menu.

  The girls must’ve been hungry, because they reined in their nonstop conversation and spoke only about the menu. This is a behavior rarely observed among women in groups, especially when the man accompanying them is starving.

  When the waitress arrived and everyone was ready to order, Brawley wondered if he was still dreaming.

  After all, what was less probable, a Tiger Mage booming threats from the stormy skies of an alternate universe, or five females quietly and decisively deciding what to order?

  Brawley asked the waitress for a bacon cheeseburger, rare, with thick-cut fries, a Coke, and a beer.

  Across the restaurant, several televisions were playing an old rerun of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Brawley glanced over just in time to see a blindfolded kid miss a pinata and nail some dude in the nuts.

  Nina laughed. “Best show ever.”

  “Bullshit,” Remi said. “Cops. Bad boys, bad boys…”

  Frankie gave Remi a playful shove. “Leave the singing to Nina. Please.”

  Nina beamed. “I like this girl. What’s your favorite show, Frankie?”

  The beautiful Gearhead bit her lip, thinking for a few seconds.

  “Probably some stupid show about cars or something,” Remi guessed.

  But Frankie shook her head. “The Great British Baking show.” She licked her full lips and offered a bright white smile. “Mm, I’d love to be a judge for that show.”

  Nina laughed, glanced down the table, and roped in the quiet cat girl. “What do you say, Callie? Best show ever?”

  Callie brightened, obviously grateful that Nina had pulled her into the conversation. Callie sat up straight and started to answer, but the TV laugh track cut abruptly, and the speakers beeped three times, like the warning signal of a big truck backing up.

  Brawley and the girls turned toward the nearest TV screen. The image of a kid whizzing down the street on his bicycle disappeared, replaced by a white, seven-pointed star shining against a field of wavering blue.

  A second later, this image vanished and Pater Janusian appeared. Tonight, the Order’s silver-haired Arch Mage wore a lime-colored suit with a light green shirt and a striped, green-on-green tie.

  Along the bottom of the screen a streaming ribbon announced, BREAKING NEWS IN THE POWER MAGE CASE.

  Around the dining room, sporadic laughter popped off. Here and there, grinning people nudged friends and nodded toward one of the many screens.

  They were still watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, of course. While Brawley waited to learn just what in the hell the Order had to say about him, these folks were watching some kid on a bike plow full-tilt-boogie into a mailbox.

  Har-dee-har-har.

  Brawley’s persistent sense of dread quickened.

  “Good evening,” Pater Janusian said, and introduced himself. “I am speaking with you tonight to share new developments in the hunt for the rogue power mage. Our initial investigations have concluded, and we can now say without any doubt that the power mage, acting with complete disrespect for both psionic and non-psionic life, murdered two hundred and seventy-seven people outside the Miami nightclub Heaven and Hell early yesterday morning.”

  “What the fuck?” Nina said.

  “The power mage is still at large,” Janusian reported, “but know that the Order is working night and day to bring him to justice before more innocent people are harmed. He is public enemy number one, and we are requesting the assistance of every member of the psionic community. Please help us to save innocent lives by bringing this monster to justice before he strikes again.

  “If you spot the power mage, do not engage. He is very powerful and extremely dangerous. Instead, report any suspicious activity immediately to your local Order officials. With your help, we will rapidly apprehend this ruthless individual.

  “Be on the lookout for a male in his late teens or early twenties, radiating considerable psionic power. He will likely be in the company of at least three female psi mages and perhaps more. We believe that he is opening his strands as rapidly as possible in order to prepare a devastating strike on the Order or perhaps a major population center.”

  “What the fuck?” Nina said again. Her face was twisted with anger.

  Remi had murder in her eyes.

  Sage merely looked focused, absorbing everything and going about the calculation of whatever analysis she was running.

  Callie glanced around, looking paranoid.

  Frankie stared at Janusian, looking like she’d swallowed a lug nut.

  “At this point in time,” Janusian continued, “we suspect the power mage has assembled a crew of females. For viewers not familiar with power mages, they possess the supernatural ability to seduce members of the opposite sex, converting them into fanatical slaves and allowing the power mage to steal their energy for his own diabolical uses.

  “While these enslaved women are victims of the power mage, they must be treated as willing accomplices, because they will behave as such.

  “Any unusual concentrations of power should be investigated, especially if the concentrated power is contained to a small space. Pay special attention to powerful groups on the move. Large vehicles, motel rooms, busses.

  “And again, if you suspect that you have identified the power mage or his women, do not intercede. Our world has not seen a threat like this since the Tiger Mage himself, twenty-three years ago.”

  “Lying sack of shit,” Nina said.

  Around the room, diners laughed again, perhaps watching one cat knock another off a dining room table.

  “Thanks to tips from the public and the hard work of our agents, we have identified three persons of interest in this case.”

  20

  “Fuckpissshitterdicks,” Nina hissed.

  Sage’s face filled t
he screen. Behind her head were shelves of books.

  Pater Janusian said, “Sage Pressley, age twenty-one, of Key West, Florida, is a powerful Seeker and the former historian of the Key West Library. She is believed to have bonded with the power mage and is to be considered extremely dangerous.”

  Sage’s picture disappeared, replaced by a mugshot of Nina, who looked young and angry in her orange jumpsuit, black eye, and then disheveled brunette locks tipped in crimson.

  “Nina Mack, twenty-two, also of Key West, Florida, is an ex-con and gifted telekinetic with a long history of lawless behavior and violent outbursts.”

  “Bullshit,” Nina said.

  “Recently,” Janusian continued, “she terrorized children at a Key West community center. Mack is believed to have bonded with the power mage and is likely the most powerful and dangerous member of the crew. She has been described as unstable, angry, and violent by those who know her, including her own stepmother.”

  “That miserable whore,” Nina grumbled.

  Next, the screen filled with a grainy newspaper photo of Remi, and Janusian announced, “Remington “Remi” Dupree is a Key West bounty hunter, twin sister to convicted mass murderer Winchester “Winnie” Dupree, and daughter of Braxton and Talia Dupree, who lead the Scars, a Chaotic biker gang comprised of Carnals infamous for their cruelty and acts of senseless and extreme violence. At this point in time, it is uncertain whether Ms. Dupree is working with the power mage or if she is his prisoner, but she should be considered armed and very dangerous.”

  “Holy shit,” Remi said, pulling a burner phone from her pocket. “I have to warn Mom and Dad. The Order will definitely be coming for them.” Jabbing buttons, she cursed and walked outside for better reception.

  “…one million dollars apiece for the capture, dead or alive, for these women,” Janusian said.

  Brawley felt like he’d been struck in the forehead with a hammer. The son of a bitch had put a hit out on Brawley’s women.

  “The bounty on the power mage has risen to twenty-five million dollars. Again, dead or alive.”

  Janusian paused again, regarding the camera with a serious, almost sad expression. “We must remain vigilant. With your help, we will bring these ruthless murderers to justice. Then we will return you to the peaceful and prosperous lives you deserve. Thank you and goodnight.”

  There was a brief pause and the loop started running again.

  “This is pointedly unfortunate,” Sage announced.

  “You can say that again, darlin,” Brawley said. Suddenly, he wished Remi hadn’t gone outside to try her phone. Something had changed in their lives, something fundamental, and he knew there would be no going back.

  At least not without killing a lot of people. At the moment, that idea held strong appeal. Especially Janusian, who had put price tags on the girls’ heads. That bastard had to die.

  “How the hell did they get our names?” Nina said. “And talk about a shitty picture to use. I mean, what the actual fuck? Did they have to use one where I had a black eye and no makeup?”

  “Yeah,” Callie said. “That picture makes you look like what they’re saying you are, some dangerous criminal that needs to be hunted down and shot between the eyes like a rabid dog.”

  “I reckon you’re right, Callie,” Brawley said. “Seems to me they’re doing to us what those evil sons of bitches did to the folks in Waco back in the 90s. Painting us as monsters so they can murder us in cold blood without the public even blinking.”

  He turned to Frankie, who looked badly rattled. “How you doing, darlin?”

  Frankie blinked at him, that pretty mouth of hers a thousand miles from smiling. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I don’t know. Scared, I guess. Not of you. It’s just…” She glanced around. “This is like really, really fucking scary, guys.”

  Across the restaurant, several diners laughed at whatever they were seeing on the TV.

  But one customer, a heavyset trucker in wire rim glasses, wasn’t laughing. He stared at the screen, his burger halfway to his mouth.

  Shit, Brawley thought. Dude was not watching America’s Funniest Home Videos.

  Brawley scanned the restaurant.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing…

  Beyond the packed counter, a skinny cook was staring at them from behind the steam table, his eyes hard and suspicious.

  “Let’s go,” Brawley said, standing up. “We gotta light a shuck.”

  “What?” Nina complained. “Can’t we at least wait for the world-famous pie and take it with us?”

  “No, sweet sister-wife,” Sage said, hauling Nina to her feet. “We have been identified and must leave now.”

  As they hurried out of the restaurant, Brawley walloped the trucker with two simultaneous notions: that he wasn’t interested in them and suddenly had to take a piss. Pronto.

  The man popped up and ran to the restroom without so much as an excuse me.

  Brawley turned his focus on the kitchen, but the skinny cook had disappeared.

  Shit.

  Brawley released another squeeze of juice but couldn’t find the guy anywhere.

  So Sage and I aren’t the only Seekers in Trucker’s Paradise. That skinny son of a bitch had cloaked himself. He was probably plugged into the Latticework, screaming their whereabouts to the Order and every truth mage on the planet.

  Brawley couldn’t blame the guy. If the hash-slinging Seeker’s tip bagged all four of them, he would get a twenty-eight-million-dollar payday. And it would take an awful lot of shifts slinging hash to earn twenty-eight million dollars.

  No, Brawley couldn’t blame him. But neither could anyone fault Brawley for putting a bullet through the Seeker’s head.

  Self-preservation trumped twenty-eight million dollars.

  Brawley remembered the crimson dream road paved in corpses.

  Well, he wouldn’t lose any sleep over adding another.

  Unfortunately, the skinny cook had flown the coop, and Brawley didn’t have time to hunt. Remi was outside. Alone.

  They went out the door.

  Remi was pacing back and forth talking on the burner. Seeing them, she said her goodbyes and hung up.

  Then they headed straight for the RV, no one saying much.

  They couldn’t afford to slow down for anything now. They would cloak hard and head West at a hundred and ten per. Find whatever his parents left for him in Louisiana, then haul ass straight to West Texas.

  It was the best plan he could come up with.

  Just as they reached the RV, however, someone shouted his name. He jolted to a stop, ready to pull both pistols, then realized the voice wasn’t coming from around him. It was coming from inside his own skull. And then he registered the blanket of scratchy warmth enveloping his mind.

  Brawley, you son of a bitch, answer me!

  Shit, Brawley thought. Not now.

  Nina touched his arm. “What is it, babe?”

  “It’s Tammy,” he said.

  Nina beamed. “Tell her I said hi!”

  Brawley frowned at his deadly telekinetic and herded her into the RV. “Everybody onboard.”

  Brawley!

  He climbed into the RV, closed the door, and gestured for Frankie to drive.

  Who’s Frankie?

  Don’t worry about it. What do you want? He paced back and forth as the RV accelerated, hating the feeling of the itchy warmth crawling over his brain. Tammy’s timing was awfully suspicious, what with the Order just announcing the big bounties.

  Relax, Tammy’s voice said. I’m not after a bounty here.

  So you say.

  If I was plotting against you, I wouldn’t reach out like this. I’d just eavesdrop. Where are you?

  Where are you? he countered.

  Driving. Well, riding. The kids are with me. So is Hazel. She knows you. Tammy delivered no thoughts for a second. He could feel her hesitation. Jamaal is driving.

  Wait a second. Jamaal and Hazel. Then Brawley’s thoughts slipped from his control and
raced along, pondering this information without filtering it. What was Tammy doing with Sage’s mentor? And Jamaal… that name…

  And then he had it.

  Don’t freak out, Tammy said, apparently having read his thoughts.

  You’re with a cop? A cop from the Order, no less? See, that right there is a problem, darlin.

  It’s not what you think, Tammy insisted. Look, I’m really pissed at you.

  Join the crowd.

  Because of you a bunch of assholes came to my house. They were going to kill me and the kids. Jamaal saved us.

  I’m glad he did, but that doesn’t mean I want to shake his hand. And why the hell would somebody want to hurt you?

  In the back of his mind, his own question started to dredge up a response from his most recent Tiger Mage dream, but Brawley did not want to give Tammy a peek into his dreams, so he kicked the thought in the teeth and focused on what she was communicating.

  The guy was a psi mob assassin. Jamaal says he was after you. Says his name is Uno. He’s a Cosmic, and—

  I know who the son of a bitch is, Brawley interrupted. His mind raced. This was bad. How could he protect his thoughts?

  No, Brawley. Don’t you even think about blocking me. Jamaal and Hazel want to help you. They said if I help them find you, they’ll let me go. So where are you?

  Darlin, you’re with a cop. I ain’t telling. And you don’t know. He released a squeeze of juice with that thought.

  Wait, her voice said. Brawley, I know you’re doing some kind of Seeker shit, because you’re thinking about having done it. Just stop. I’m not hitting you with telepathic commands, so don’t you go using your shit on me. You really fucked me over. You almost got me killed. Almost got my kids killed. We’re not safe anymore. We can’t go home, and I’m going to get fired, and I have to take care of my babies. How do you expect me to take care of my babies now, you stupid son of a bitch?

  Tammy’s thoughts were a raw and raging torrent then, and Brawley’s Seeker senses assured him that she was being honest.

  Look, darlin, I’m sorry if you’re in a rough spot. But just like you gotta protect your family, I gotta protect mine. And you’re with a cop.