by Paul Duffau
Mitch would have laughed at the irony, but his head hurt too much. Graham sure as heck wasn’t coming to save him. He slipped his feet to the floor and stood on wobbly knees. “Since I haven’t done anything wrong, I don’t need a card. Or to stay.” He looked at Sarge and stuck out a hand. “I need my wallet.”
“You’re staying.” He glanced at Pendleton. “Charge him with criminal trespass.”
“That’s bull—” The word caught in his mouth and his body stopped responding to his commands. The same appeared to happen to the two security officers, judging by the wildness in their eyes. Magic, thought Mitch, detached. Graham was here.
The door to the office swung open and Mitch would have shouted except for that paralyzing spell. His eyes still worked, so he rolled them at Mercury, who gave him a sidewise grin.
“Hello, Mitch.” His right hand fashioned a complex pattern that Mitch didn’t recognize. Mercury spoke to the officers as his fingers moved. “Gentlemen, you have called Raymond Graham. He came by and picked up the boy, whose name you cannot remember once we leave. You will have a residual fondness for the young man.” He stepped forward and plucked Mitch’s wallet from an unresisting hand. He flicked the fingers of his left hand at Mitch. Feeling and motion returned to Mitch’s limbs.
“They called the paramedics, too.”
“Good to know.” Mercury handed over the wallet. “Please cancel the paramedics and let them know that the patient has already left your facility under his own power.”
“What about the computer? And the reports and stuff?” asked Mitch. He would bet that the Rubieras watched the security force for untoward events. This was going to qualify.
“It’s magic, not Hollywood. There are limits to what we can do.”
“Let me try,” suggested Mitch. Mercury shrugged one shoulder, which Mitch took to be acceptance, so he sat in front of the monitor. Tapping the mouse brought the screen to life. He paged through the tabs at the bottom of the screen. The third tab revealed incident-reporting software. It looked to be a standalone system. Without looking, he spoke over his shoulder. “Can you use the compulsion spell to find out if this program is web-based or standalone?”
There was a delay of several seconds before Sarge spoke.
“Standalone. We’re too small to bother with a fully integrated reporting and investigation system.”
Good. Mitch deleted the entry with his name and forced a save. Then he rebooted the operating system. “It’s not foolproof,” he apologized, “but it’s better than nothing.” Not much, though. Half a dozen methods to protect data, from change logs to remote backup and recovery software, popped into his head. Even stealing the hard drive from the computer wouldn’t be an absolute guarantee. Working for Jackson had increased his paranoia a hundred-fold.
“Let’s go,” said Mercury. Two minutes later, they left the Windermere gate behind.
Mercury drove south.
“I parked my car at school,” said Mitch, “Hitchings. It’s over on Capitol Hill.”
“In due time. First we have other business to attend to.” Mercury let go of the wheel to pat down his pockets, using his knee to control the sedan in traffic. “Never did like these monkey suits. Ah, there it is.” Mercury produced an old red flip phone from his jacket pocket. To Mitch’s relief, he put his left hand back on the steering wheel. With his right, he thumbed the cover open, hit a speed-dial button, and put the phone up to his ear.
Mitch overheard the ringing, and the other person’s voice answer, “Graham.” He ratcheted his head around to stare at the old wizard. He ignored the throb the sudden movement caused. Mercury saw the reaction and fluttered the phone at him to tell him to shut up.
“Hello, Raymond,” said Mercury.
Graham’s reply was inaudible.
“I have the boy. Why don’t you meet us at the herb garden, near my old office?”
Mitch found himself leaning in toward Mercury, trying to decipher Graham’s words. The response was audible but incoherent. The cop’s tone bleeding past the phone and traffic noise made the meaning clear enough. “You can’t leave me with him,” Mitch blurted out. His protest drew a withering glance from Mercury.
“We’ll be waiting.” The wizard snapped the phone shut, terminating the call, and turned left onto Montlake Boulevard. In front of them was the University of Washington campus. To Mitch, he said, “Quit being a ninny.”
Crossing his arms, Mitch slouched back into the seat. He didn’t hide the scowl on his face. If his displeasure bothered Mercury, it didn’t show.
Mercury drove deep into the campus, finally parking near a secluded garden. In sullen silence, Mitch exited the vehicle and followed the older man into the park-like space. He passed the sign that announced the Medicinal Herb Garden. A pair of screaming monkeys on totems protected the entrance. Their presence grated on Mitch in some indefinable way, warning him of . . . what? Spiders passed up and down his spine, creeping him out. He was missing something. A nose-wrinkling pungency greeted them, the sweet scent of mint blended with lavender flowers into an overwhelming bath of spiced air.
“You worked here?” he asked, to break the silence. The surrounding foliage absorbed the city sounds of highways and traffic to create an oasis of serenity.
“Near here.”
The arachnoid dance on his spine intensified. “I don’t see you as much of a gardener.” How far back do the U-Dub records go?
Mercury trudged across crunchy gravel to a bench and settled himself on it. “No, I’m not.” He gave Mitch an appraising glance that pierced through the light questioning and sighed. “You are most annoying sometimes. I was a professor.”
“Of what?” Mitch responded, incredulous. “I mean, you’re a wizard.”
“Is Hunter stupid? Is Kenzie?” asked Mercury, his face showing signs of impatience.
“Well, no, but—”
“Just because I am one thing does not mean that I cannot also be another, or both, and more besides. And to put you off your next question, molecular genetics was my field of study, with a specialization in human evolutionary mutation.”
“Why . . .” Mitch’s voice faded as he put the new information into the existing frameworks. It would make sense for wizards with a scientific bent to seek the genetic basis of their magic. First, to grow the Families. Kenzie had hinted at the problems that the Families had in gaining adherents. Second, if the magic was the result of a singular genetic adaptation, it left the wizards vulnerable to a specific disease response in the same way that African-Americans were susceptible to sickle cell anemia or Northern Europeans to Tay-Sachs. Or to a deliberate attack, he thought with chilling morbidness, like mosquitoes bred specifically to kill other mosquitoes by screwing with their reproductive systems.
While his brain geared up to manage the new information, Mitch paced a figure eight around two boxes filled with pungent herbs as he plotted the lines of reasoning, putting them into a structure that would fit the existing patterns. Whole equations needed to be adjusted, and he added new questions he had been too busy to ask, like what was magic? He’d seen it but didn’t understand it, and he was beginning to think that maybe the wizards didn’t either, practicing their Art, as Kenzie put it, like Olympic athletes in ancient Sparta before the discoveries of physiology and biochemistry revolutionized modern training.
“Hello, Raymond.”
Cursing himself under his breath for not paying attention, Mitch spun around, gravel grinding under his soles.
Graham stalked forward, a belligerent glare locked onto Mitch. His lips scarcely moved. “Matthias.”
Mitch stood taller and kept his face composed. Who was Matthias? Mercury? Buying trouble was out of the question; if not for his sake, then for Kenzie’s. Despite nerves that jumped, arguing for him to run, escape, he took an oblique course that would put him behind the older wizard. He kept his focus on Graham’s hands and walked with sure purpose, to confirm that he was a party to this meeting and not just the goofy hanger
-on. Perception is reality, right?
Mercury glanced at him and gave him a signal to warn him to keep his mouth zipped. Returning his attention to Graham, he asked, “How is McKenzie?”
Mitch’s face froze. What happened to Kenzie? Why didn’t I know?
“She’s safe.” Graham stopped a dozen feet away, legs shoulder-width apart and arms by his sides. The minute droop of his shoulders gave a sense of weariness at odds with the hyperalertness of his eyes. “How did you know I was coming for the boy?”
I got a name, you jerk.
“You trust your technology too much, Raymond. Cell phones are corruptible, and conversations never really private.” He paused. “Who attacked the Family?”
“I was expecting to get that answer from Meriwether here.” Graham transferred his glare to Mitch and pointed. “Who did you tell, boy.”
“No one, old man,” said Mitch, matching Graham’s sneering tone. “You all are the ones that can’t keep a secret.”
Before he could say more, Mercury grabbed his wrist, gave it a powerful squeeze—and a vise closed on his vocal cords as Mitch lost the ability to speak. He fired a look of disgust at Mercury. Graham, meanwhile, had turned a wonderful shade of puce, so at least he’d scored a point before Mercury benched him.
“This is why teenage boys should be kept in barrels,” said Mercury, shaking his head. To Kenzie’s dad, he said, “He’s still under my protection. I doubt that Mitch was involved, as the attack seems to have incapacitated him at the same time. Whoever led the attack coordinated to a very high degree: a team at your house and at least one wizard to attack the boy. So, the question still stands. Who initiated the attack on your Family? The second question, perhaps more interesting, is why attack Mitch and not kill him outright?”
A furrow crossed Graham’s forehead. “It gives him protective cover.” The statement lacked the police officer’s normal certainty.
From who? Mitch ground his teeth in frustration at not being able to talk.
“I would suggest investigating the Spaniards’ activities today. It would not be the first or second or thirtieth time they’ve committed a treacherous assault.”
“We have an alliance. There are too many benefits for them to take that chance.” He hesitated. “For now.”
Mercury barked out a sardonic laugh. “That’s more the Raymond Graham I saw years ago when I sponsored you to the Council of Protectors for the Family.”
Mitch stared at the old wizard. Mercury was a Graham! Damn it, he should have seen that from the beginning. Puzzle pieces shuffled in his head to take into account the addition of this critical bit of information. Thinking rapidly, he sorted what he knew: the lie that Mercury had given about tapping Graham’s phone—Mercury hated tech—to find Mitch first, the details of the attack that had just happened. He stopped there. Too much new data, and brain overload was imminent.
The attack didn’t fit. The Rubieras were looking to create a master race of wizards. It looked like a sizable portion of the Grahams were hunky-dory with the idea, the difference being what to do about the Meat. The Grahams liked the long game and thought that they would overwhelm ordinary people with natural superiority. The Rubieras preferred a more direct, and gruesome, thinning of the herd.
And Kenzie was betrothed to Hunter to cement the deal for the two Families. Kenzie had suggested running away together, a sad joke that failed to amuse either of them. For Mitch, it was a time-and-space problem: How far did they have to run before the Families would stop looking? And how much time did they have before the Families forced the marriage to take place?
Mitch refocused on the conversation in front of him. It took a second to get up to speed.
Graham was speaking. “—use resources of the department to locate vehicles entering and leaving Windermere. The access points surrounding my home are less manageable, just from the sheer number of foot paths leading down to the lake, but most of the parks have some form of surveillance. If they were dumb enough to use public spaces, we might locate them.”
Mitch raised an incredulous eyebrow. Even he wasn’t that stupid.
“You disagree, boy?” The expression on the cop’s face displayed a probing curiosity at odds with the mocking tenor of his tone.
Mitch shrugged and broke eye contact.
Mercury stood up from the bench. “If a war is coming, you will need every competent wizard you can find. If you need my services, I will willingly join forces with you, in a subordinate role, of course.”
Graham’s response was immediate and harsh. “You have been banished. There is no return from your disgrace. None in the family will ever consent to allow you even one second in the Glade with us, nor will I waste my time trying to convince them.”
Not a total rejection, Mitch observed.
Mercury nodded as though he’d been expecting the answer. “Understood, though I will continue with my activities.” He gestured toward Mitch. “I will act as guardian of the boy—”
Mitch! Merc was getting into the habit of treating him like furniture instead of a person.
“—to assure his safety and his, er, silence. The Family should have no fear of him, or of exposure from him. McKenzie will obviously be under your protection. In the meantime, we identify the enemy, you with the police resources and me with mine. If the Rubieras are not responsible, then we should seriously consider Lassiter’s organization.”
Undercurrents of meaning passed between the two wizards in front of him, concluding in an unspoken agreement.
“Agreed,” he said. He glanced at Mitch, expressionless, and turned around. In seconds, he had exited the garden.
Mercury let out a rush of breath. “That went better than I had hoped.”
Annoyed, Mitch tapped Mercury’s shoulder.
“Sorry, Mitch.” He snapped his fingers and the pressure at Mitch’s Adam’s apple disappeared.
“I got questions.”
“You always have questions,” said Mercury. “Ask. I might not answer.”
“How did you get banished?”
Mercury faced Mitch, amusement glowing in his eyes. “I conducted a genealogical study of the Family, looking for genetic markers in the various branches. The Family did not like the results.”
“Why not?”
“The truth, Mitch, will sometimes get you in far greater trouble than a flattering lie. Using genetic analysis, I proved wizards are like mules. Without exception, every single hypocritical ‘pureblooded’ wizard is in reality a child of an illicit affair between Meat and magic.” He grinned crookedly. “I called them all bastards.”
Chapter 12
Harold was wrong.
With the heavy drapes pulled tight in her room, Kenzie balanced the effort of blowing a breeze past a colorful pinwheel with a spell for creating light. The dazzling brilliance reflected off the spinning vanes to decorate the walls in a gyrating laser show that confused her eyes.
She relaxed and the ticking of the pinwheel slowed away as the artificial wind died. She kept the glow of the other spell going until she opened the curtains. Sunlight dashed in and splashed warmly against her face. She extinguished the second spell.
Even the minor effort necessary to conjure those spells fatigued her. Still, she was pleased. Despite what Harold thought, she could handle two spells at once, not just switch quickly between them.
That solved one issue, even as it introduced an exciting possibility. How many spells could she handle at once?
The second issue, though, the question that Harold had dodged, weighed on her. She knew that he knew who her mother had been, but the old fogey wouldn’t tell her. He’d clammed up, deflecting her questions into queries about her condition.
Idly, she wondered if she were powerful enough to make him, to force the issue with Alétheis, the compulsion spell. A tremor hit her hands at taking on a full wizard with a spell that she knew only from observation. Kenzie signed it, emulating her father. She could feel layers on layers of magic coalesce.
Should she make him? She was strong enough.
Kenzie dismissed the temptation with revulsion. Her instincts told her that she couldn’t cross that line with one of the only friendly people in her life. Abusing Harold, and forcing a wizard to act against his will, qualified as abuse of the most serious kind; it struck her as wrong, the same kind of wrong that she experienced when the Family talked casually about the problem of Meat.
Mitch was Meat, and her only problem with him was keeping him from being stupid.
She lay down on her comforter, turning onto her side, away from the window. Her jaw cracked with a huge yawn, and she pulled her pillow tight to the ache in her chest. Who did you talk to when you had no friends?
What is Mitch doing now?
Forcing him away hadn’t worked very well, even after she explained the danger to him. The big goof even took up running so they’d be able to meet. Shock had turned into surprise the first time he intercepted her. Now, she anticipated the clandestine meetings and kisses with an excited thrill. The secret codes that lent an air of intrigue to their relationship. She bit her lower lip. With a palpable ache, she wanted his arms around her. And for him to listen. Mitch was good at that. He’d be sure to ask one or a dozen of his exasperating questions, but he had a knack for hearing all the things she didn’t say.
Maybe he’d suggest another exotic place, always someplace warm, to flee to. It was a nice daydream, a game they could play. Hiding out, so they could be just them: Mitch, Kenzie. She smiled, eyes falling shut. It had been her idea to run away together, a joke, but he’d played along. She snuggled the pillow.
Her brain continued to meander like a leaf on the surface of a slow-moving creek, floating downstream, changing directions with the currents. She took unconscious pleasure from her slow, deep breathing.
Maybe Belize.
Sunny beaches, warm . . .
Her thoughts flowed, found a mossy stone to turn on.
How far did Elowyn run?
Images of a girl not much older than herself played in her mind, a girl dressed in green. Growing up lonely in the Family. Meeting a boy. Is that why she left? Or maybe she left and then met a boy.