Dark Magic

by James Swain

  “I saw it. You have to believe me.”

  “Do you know where your friends are?”

  “No. I need to go find them.”

  “You’re leaving right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Peter, this is insane. Call the police. They can protect them better than you can.”

  The police hadn’t protected his parents, or Madame Marie and her husband, and Peter knew they wouldn’t be able to save Milly and Holly. When it came to dealing with the spirit world, the police were always one step behind.

  “Offer everybody a rain check,” he said.

  Liza stepped back. The look in her eyes bordered on pure disdain.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “I have to go. If that doesn’t work, give them a full refund.”

  “Whatever you say, Peter.” And then she was gone.

  25

  Wolfe waited until dark to hunt Millicent Adams.

  According to the information he’d found on the Internet, she was considered the psychic in New York, and counted many of the city’s rich and famous as her clients. She worked out of a luxurious apartment building called the Dakota on the Upper West Side across from Central Park. Finding her would not be difficult, even in a city as big as this one.

  Still wearing his elaborate disguise, he left the Hotel Carter at nine o’clock, and walked to the busy Times Square subway station at 42nd Street. Soon he was packed in a subway car with a mob of people hooked into iPhones or reading a newspaper.

  Just north of 59th Street, the car hit a bump in the track, and the lights went out. The smell of fear emanated from his fellow passengers like cheap perfume. The day his hearing had changed, so had his other senses, and his sense of smell was better than a dog’s. Human beings threw off a variety of smells depending upon the mood they were in, and Wolfe knew what each smell meant. It had saved his life many times.

  He exited at the 81st Street station. At the top of the stairs was a man hawking the New York Post. He bought a copy. Splashed across the front page was his picture with the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? Everyone in the bloody city was looking for him.

  He found an isolated spot outside of the station and opened up the newspaper beneath a dim street light. There was a long story explaining his various misdeeds. The police had upped their reward to $100,000 for his capture. The captain of the NYPD was quoted as saying, “We’re going to nail this son of a bitch, so help me God!”

  Wolfe did not scare easily. But the Post story was troubling. It mentioned the tattoo on his neck and included a drawing of it. It was like having a scarlet letter stitched to his chest. He had to get the damn thing removed.

  Stuffing the paper into a trash bin, he headed south on Central Park West, walking along the wide sidewalk beside the park. The smells emanating from the park were more varied than in the subway. Joggers panting, lovers in between breaths, a baby needing its diaper changed, someone smoking a joint. At the corner of 72nd Street, he caught another smell coming out of the oak trees inside the park. It made every hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  A waist-high concrete wall separated the sidewalk from the park. Wolfe pressed his stomach to it. A mob of black crows stared back at him from the tree limbs. As a soldier, he’d learned about crows. They were meant to guide spirits into the afterlife, and were considered dark omens on the battlefield. He tried to put their presence out of his mind.

  A more pleasant smell invaded his head. On the corner, a vendor sold roasted chestnuts from a metal cart. Wolfe bought a bag, and asked for directions to find the famed Dakota.

  “You must be from out of town,” the vendor said.

  “Is it that obvious?” Wolfe said.

  “It’s across the street.”

  He had a look. The Dakota took up the entire block, and was as imposing as a medieval fortress. He spotted no less than a dozen security cameras secured to the front, a doorman, and more security people inside the lobby. No wonder the city’s elite chose to live here. Breaking into the building would be difficult, if not downright impossible.

  He thought back to the articles he’d read about Millicent Adams. Milly, as her friends called her, was a creature of habit, and dined each night at a quaint French restaurant on West 86th Street, where she sat at her own table, often in the company of a friend, ate a simple meal of broiled fish and vegetables, and drank a single glass of white Chablis. She’d been following this routine for forty years, and had ventured out every night, regardless of the weather. Would tonight be any different? Something told him it wouldn’t.

  He ate his bag of warm nuts. To throw off any curious passersby, he glanced at his watch every few minutes, as if awaiting someone’s arrival. He also regularly took out his cell phone, and pretended to be having a conversation.

  He repeated the charade until nine-thirty. By now, the vendor had gone home, and the block was deserted. He was soaked to the skin, and his cheap suit had started to fall apart.

  Then, his luck changed.

  A taxi pulled up to the Dakota, and Milly Adams climbed out, wearing a mink stole and a mink hat. With her was a young woman in jeans and a sweater. The second woman was Milly’s spitting image. This had to be Holly Adams, the last name on his list.

  Wolfe smiled through chattering teeth. What was the expression? Kill two birds with one stone. Or two psychics with one pair of hands.

  He started across the street.

  His victims stood beneath the building’s awning, oblivious to the danger they were in. That was good, because he planned to snap them both like twigs.

  The front door opened, and a doorman stepped out. Beneath his blazer was something substantial, perhaps a gun, or billy club. Wolfe decided to take the doorman out first, just to be safe. The element of surprise was his. It was all he’d ever needed.

  A new person came through the door. Wolfe instantly recognized him. It was Peter Warlock, dressed in his magic-show outfit. Three birds with one stone, he thought.

  “Where have the two of you been?” Warlock said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Milly Adams dismissed him with a wave, and went inside. Her niece gave the young magician a kiss on the cheek, and followed her aunt through the front door.

  Wolfe stopped in his tracks. These women were not stupid. They knew their lives were in danger, yet had chosen to venture outside. Had he missed something?

  Rain poured down the back of his collar. He heard a noise that was louder than the rain. Like a tornado bearing down on him. He slowly turned around. The army of crows was flapping their wings and shrieking at him in a mad chorus. The power of their wings was so great that the rain was blown sideways. They looked ready to rip him apart.

  Wolfe was not fond of animals. A tiger had nearly torn him to pieces in Kenya, and a monkey had chewed off a piece of his ear in India. The crows looked particularly formidable. And there were lots of them.

  He who runs away, lives to fight another day.

  A soldier had said that. A very smart soldier. He turned away from the building, and headed up the street. The crows’ shrieking was so loud that he couldn’t think. He had experienced fear many times in his life, but nothing like this.

  He took off at a dead run. He heard a sound like a page being torn out of a magazine, amplified a thousand times. He glanced over his shoulder.

  The crows were after him.

  He looked for a restaurant to duck into, or an alley, but there was nothing. At the next corner, a cab pulled up, and a well-dressed couple disembarked. Wolfe grabbed the door before it closed, and hopped in.

  “Go north,” he told the driver.

  The cab sped away, and Wolfe fell back in his seat. The idea of retirement had never seemed more inviting than it did right now. A banging sound broke his concentration.

  “What was that?” the driver asked.

  Wolfe turned around. A single crow had caught up to them. It slammed its beak against the glass while its bloodred eyes tore a ho
le into his soul.

  “Something’s attacking my cab!”

  The driver drifted over to the curb and hit the brakes. As he opened his door, the crow flew into the cab. Flying through the open partition into the backseat, it bit Wolfe’s face. Wolfe grabbed the bird with both hands, and pulled it away. Clutched in its beak was a piece of his disguise, the rest of which hung off his face like dead skin. The bird shrieked like an angry schoolteacher before going limp in his hands.

  Wolfe was shaking as he got out of the cab, and tossed the dead bird into the gutter. The driver stood a safe distance away, looking at him fearfully.

  “You’re a zombie!”

  Wolfe decided to steal the cab. He’d broken so many damn laws that it didn’t really matter. Soon he was speeding north on Amsterdam, wondering how he was going to explain this to the men who employed him.

  Movement in his mirror caught his eye. Two blocks behind him, Peter Warlock was running down the middle of the street, chasing him. He’d seen a lot of strange things in New York, and the notion that the young magician might somehow outrun the cab did not seem as crazy as it might have a few days ago.

  He punched the gas, and watched Warlock disappear.

  26

  “Coward!” Peter yelled at the fleeing cab.

  He stopped in the middle of Central Park West as the cab’s taillights faded away. He’d caught the license plate, and pulled out Special Agent Garrison’s business card from his wallet, and punched the FBI agent’s number into his cell phone. Garrison picked up on the first ring.

  “Who’s this?” Garrison asked suspiciously.

  “This is Peter Warlock. Wolfe just tried to attack two of my friends. He’s now heading north on Central Park West in a stolen yellow cab, license plate number 9AH 4B7.”

  “How’s he dressed?”

  “He’s wearing a cheap dark suit and some kind of fake skin that makes him look like an old man. I didn’t recognize him at first. A bird tore most of it away.”

  “A bird?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Right. Was anyone hurt?”

  Peter looked at the cab driver, whom Wolfe had knocked to the ground, being helped to his feet by a well-dressed couple. People were always saying that New Yorkers were cold and unfriendly, yet in fact the opposite was true. The driver was shaken up, but no worse for wear.

  “The driver got knocked on the head, but it looks like he’s going to be okay,” Peter said.

  “What about your two friends? Did Wolfe hurt them?”

  “No, but he got close.”

  “I’m alerting the NYPD. Hopefully, they’ve got a patrol car in the area, and can run him down. I need to know your friends’ names, so the police can get a statement from them.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game. Your friends are in danger, and so are you.”

  “Telling you their names won’t change that,” Peter said.

  He hung up the phone and started walking back to the Dakota. A black object lying in the gutter caught his eye. It was one of Milly’s crows, its body broken and lifeless. He picked it up, remembering all the times he’d seen the crows perched in the oak trees across from the building. Every psychic had secrets they did not share, or a past they did not talk about. The crows were part of Milly’s past, and he knew little of their history.

  Holly was waiting inside the lobby. The shock of what had happened had sunk in, and her face was ashen. Seeing the dead bird, she let out a tiny sob.

  “Oh, no.”

  “You weren’t supposed to go out,” Peter said.

  “My aunt thought it would be okay if we went to dinner together.”

  “It wasn’t okay. Damn it, Holly. Wolfe came that close.”

  His voice was trembling, and he tried to control himself. Seeing into the future was often terrifying. It was more terrifying when no one would listen.

  “Please don’t be angry,” Holly said as they rode the elevator upstairs.

  “I have every right to be angry,” he said. “You’re behaving like a child.”

  “Peter, please stop. I can’t stand when you act like this.”

  Holly had never had her loved ones taken away from her. Hopefully, she never would.

  “Just listen to me,” he said. “We have these amazing powers, but in reality, we’re no different than anyone else. We can still get sick, still die. We’re mortal. Stop acting like you’re not.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Is that how I’m acting?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. I’ll stop. Now please calm down.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it. Your face is so angry. I hate when you get like this.”

  “When did I ever get like this?”

  “When we were young, and you babysat for me. Sometimes, you just boiled with anger.”

  “Did you listen to me then?”

  “Stop it. Please.”

  He stared at the elevator door. The anger had been buried inside of him for as long as he could remember. When it reared its ugly head, there was no getting out of its way.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  * * *

  Milly met them at the front door to her apartment. She took the dead crow out of Peter’s hands and held it protectively against her chest. With her free hand, she touched the side of Peter’s face, and brushed back an errant strand of hair.

  “Thank you for bringing him,” she said.

  “He died trying to protect you and Holly,” Peter said.

  “I know he did. Please come inside.”

  She took them to her study. It was a small room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with musty-smelling volumes on the occult. Milly had them sit on a leather couch, then wedged herself between them. She stroked the dead bird’s feathers while staring into space.

  “These crows have been a part of my family for three centuries,” Milly said. “They first appeared when my ancestor, Mary Glover, was hanged for being a witch. Mary called out to the crows right before she was put to death, and the crows replied by making a terrible cawing sound. They’ve been making that sound ever since. Holly, would you fetch a towel from the kitchen?”

  Holly rose from the couch and walked out of the room. Peter had been waiting for this opportunity, and placed his hand on Milly’s sleeve. “I need to speak with you in private.”

  “Not tonight, Peter. I’m tired and upset, as I imagine you are as well.”

  “You and Max can’t avoid me forever,” he said.

  “Are we avoiding you?”

  “It’s beginning to feel that way.”

  Holly returned with a dish towel, which Milly used to wrap the dead bird. Peter sensed she was not looking forward to this conversation any more than he was. Milly spoke to her niece in a quiet voice. “Holly, be a dear, and leave us alone. Peter and I need to speak in private.”

  “About what?” Holly asked, sounding annoyed.

  “The past.”

  “How can you be keeping secrets at a time like this?” Holly asked.

  “I’m sorry, my dear.”

  Holly’s shoes clomped across the wood floors. Milly laughed under her breath.

  “I would give anything to be her age again,” she said.

  Peter took the dead bird from her and placed it on the desk. Returning to the couch, he sat down beside the woman who’d help raise him, and took her frail, liver-spotted hands in both his own. “I want you to tell me about the children of Marble, and how my parents became part of the Order of Astrum,” he said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “My girlfriend. She and my assistant hacked the FBI’s computer. There was an article about the Order that claimed my parents were founding members. Is this true?”

  His words had a powerful effect on her. Or perhaps, it was the memory being dredged to the surface after being buried for so long that caused her to pause. Her eyes took on the faraway expression of a person l
ost in a daydream.

  “I don’t know the entire story, and I’m not sure that anyone does,” Milly said. “But I will tell you what your mother told me. Perhaps you will be able to figure out the rest.”

  “Please,” he said.

  “One day when your parents were small children, they were playing with three boys from their village. It was the dead of winter, and they were making a snowman in a field. Suddenly they heard a noise that sounded like a baby crying, and decided to investigate. They left the field and entered a forest, where they walked down a path until they came to a frozen pond where the townspeople sometimes ice-skated. Stuck in the middle of the pond was a black cat, which appeared to be having a problem standing on the ice, and was crying for help.

  “I suppose your mother had heightened sensibilities at a young age, for she immediately became suspicious. She had never seen the cat before, and couldn’t understand how it had reached the middle of the pond, yet could not get back. Your mother suggested that they find a grown-up, and let them deal with the situation. The other children scoffed at her, and said they didn’t need an adult, they could save the animal themselves.

  “The four boys ventured onto the pond, and tried to rescue the cat. Your father turned to your mother, and asked her to join them. I suppose the attraction between them had already begun, for your mother agreed, and walked onto the ice.

  “Then, a peculiar thing happened. The cat stopped crying, and became deathly still. Your mother remembers that it began to make a strange sound, as if snorting at them. The next thing she knew, the ice began to crack all around her. The children screamed. One by one, they fell into the icy water. Your mother was the last to go into the drink. She had not taken her eyes off the cat, which proceeded to run away, and disappear into the woods.”

  “It wasn’t hurt,” Peter said.

  Milly shook her head.

  “Was it a trap?”

  She nodded.

  “But by who?”

  “Whoever owned the cat, I suppose.”

  “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  “The children were heavily clothed, and quickly sank to the bottom of the pond,” Milly continued. “Your mother said it was very dark, and quite surreal. She could feel the others thrashing about in the water, but could not see them. She tried to save herself, but soon ran out of energy. Finally, she had no choice, and gave up.”