by Paul Duffau
I did it.
She shuffled closer. Arching her neck, careful not to cross the barrier, she peered into the opening. She looked to both sides, down to the mulchy soil, and across to the roar of water descending the waterfall. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself standing in the Glade.
Was it safe? That was the next question to answer. Kenzie had needed a way to see Harold without Sasha and her father knowing. Jackson was downstairs, but she couldn’t let the bodyguard take her, and couldn’t risk Mitch being discovered this time if she got caught. The doorway from Harold’s home to Mercury’s had planted the idea that she could do something similar. The lack of a spell for it held her up for only a moment, long enough to remember Harold’s lesson on using magic to create the gytrash. So she had pictured the portal, a gateway that bypassed the normal entrances, called forth magic to her will, and, presto, shocked herself silly when it worked.
Kenzie put her hand out, palm flat to the surface between worlds, and pushed out slowly, ready to snatch it back in an instant if something went wrong. As her palm reached the changeover point, her face wrinkled up into a wince. And then, it was on the other side. Sweat broke out on her brow as she let out a pent-up breath. There was no sensation of the change other than the temperature. The air-conditioning in her room made it cooler than the other side. She tested her hand, flexed her fingers, and locked them into a fist. It seemed safe enough.
Still giddy, Kenzie stepped halfway through the portal, straddling the line between her room and the Glade. The edge of the portal befuddled her eyes and defied examination. On one side was her room. On the other side was the lagoon. Nothing existed at the interface. If she looked around the edge into the bedroom, she saw the closet. The opposite direction gave her a view of the brook fed from the lagoon. Shrugging, she accepted that the magic wouldn’t allow her to divine more.
Taking a deep breath, Kenzie walked into the Glade. She was two steps in when the next shock hit her.
Kenzie was in jeans and her loose-fitting blouse. In the Glade. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked to see if there was anybody to notice.
“Quit being paranoid,” she said out loud. As if in reply, the tone of the brook next to her took on a tinkling quality that made it sound like joyous laughter, a parent celebrating a toddler’s achievements. Kenzie gave the lagoon a probing stare. She was beginning to have some questions that only her real mother might be able to answer.
For now, she had questions for Harold. Top of the list was where was he? Sunday, after a silent drive to the Glade with her parents, there had been an old lady named Agnes directing Harold’s class of Wilders and the other kids. No explanation of where the old wizard was or why he wasn’t teaching. The new instructor was an old lady from the circle, one she barely knew. With that realization came another, hard on its heels. She barely knew most of the wizards in the Glade, yet they all seemed to know of her. Not know her, but know of McKenzie Graham. Goose bumps formed. Why?
She wondered if this was what it was like being in Mitch’s brain, with a million questions and not enough answers. If so, he was welcome to it. She didn’t like the fuzziness at all.
Agnes walked with her head forward, a prominent dowager’s hump at the base of her neck, and spoke with words that stung like a wasp. The lesson had been painful. The nagging crone spent the entire time castigating the neophytes for sloppiness and covering rudimentary spells. “No, not like that, McKenzie. Don’t flop your hand every which way like a dying fish.” Behind the terse rebukes were piercing eyes that projected a hungry anticipation that set Kenzie’s nerves tingling.
She had let her form get sloppy because the whole flailing-at-the-air thing was slow when she could just touch energy. In moments of stress, she resorted to the intricate designs of the spells like she did when tying up Hunter, but no spell she knew could have opened the Glade to her like this.
The hand-woven spells were like forms in Tang Soo Do—a way to focus the body, mind, and energy. Both were ultimately practice to the true manifestation of their respective Arts. The flash of enlightenment made her shake her head as she walked. Was this why Harold encouraged her to continue with Jules? Her assessment of her wizard mentor’s sneakiness went up a couple of notches.
Enough loitering. Next on the list was to discover if she was being tested by the circle. She unplanted her feet and started down the path to find Harold. Kenzie took the path away from the water, following the brook. The soft earth felt good on her feet. Suddenly a fear struck her like Jules’s kick to her gut, and she shuddered to a halt.
What if the gateway disappeared?
Panic attack in full bloom, Kenzie made a fast about-face and ran barefooted back to the lagoon. Her chest hurt like she had sprinted a mile. It took her just a minute to retrace her steps, right to the edge of the water.
It was gone. Her way back to her house had vanished.
The pain in her stomach rose and squeezed the blood from her heart. Sasha would lose her mind over Kenzie sneaking out. What if she couldn’t re-create the portal? A dozen scenarios on how to get home crossed through her mind. The best of them involved seeing Harold first. He had his own doorway out. The last thing she needed to do was parade out the front doors.
Her decision made, Kenzie resigned herself to improvising. She turned away from the shore and stared. Like she was staring in through a window, she saw the rumpled covers on her bed.
The magical connection between her room and the lagoon stood beckoning. She walked to it, head cocked to one side, trying to make sense of it. Reaching it, she peered around the edge, to what should have been the back. She was looking at her legs as though the portal didn’t exist; it did, but only on this side. Hands shaking, she tested it by by stepping through to her room. The air-conditioning hit the sweat of fear that coated her skin, and Kenzie shivered. She still wanted her answers. And the portal was still open.
Harold’s left eyebrow raised slowly and his hands lowered the book he held. Kenzie found her eyes drawn to the vivid image of a space battle on the cover. The title was Galactic Patrol. The idea that the wizard read anything other than dusty tomes boggled her mind.
“This is quite an unexpected surprise, McKenzie,” he said. He lowered his chin and gazed at her from under his eyebrows. “You are taking quite a risk to come see me. The Glade is very busy today.”
Kenzie stood tongue-tied. Harold tracked her gaze to the novel.
“Science fiction got me hooked on physics early.” His worn face split into a rueful grin. “An old man likes to visit with old friends.” He lifted the book as a gesture. “Some have held up better over time than others.”
Kenzie experienced the kind of disorientation that comes with meeting a familiar person in an unfamiliar setting. Harold reading science fiction was like bumping into your calculus teacher at the grocery store. Teachers were supposed to sleep under their desks and old wizards were supposed to read even older books that smelled of history.
Harold took her off the hook. “You didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of old sci-fi. Since you are in everyday clothing, I surmise you did not enter through the grotto. Therefore, you have either intuited how to create a portal or there is a third entrance of which I am unaware.”
Kenzie nodded. “How does it work? I know it does, but why?”
“Would you like the answer in advanced mathematics or plain English?”
“English.”
“I don’t know.”
Kenzie didn’t know what exactly she expected, but the most knowledgeable wizard she knew admitting ignorance was not it. “But you have your own door.”
“I do. I know what works.” He frowned. “The why is the tricky part. None of the math works to explain it unless you postulate the existence of wormholes, but current theory is suggesting that they would act like black holes with a gravity field that would capture everything within its region of attraction, which is clearly not the case here.” He saw the look on her face
. “Your father and I had some very interesting conversations about things like the doors, or portals, whatever you would like to call them. Now, to the subject at hand. You’ve placed yourself in considerable danger by entering the Glade this way, and the only reason to do so is to talk to me. What are your questions?”
Kenzie dipped her chin. “A bunch, but first one, why did you recommend I start back into martial arts?”
Harold regarded her for a brief moment. “Because I can’t teach you everything you need to learn. Your sensei can.”
“Sabomnim. It’s a Korean style,” Kenzie corrected automatically. “What kind of things?”
“You tell me.”
Kenzie looked up to the left and then brought her attention back to Harold. “Focus. You and Jules keep after me on it.” She looked at him for approval.
Harold twirled his fingers in a keep going circle.
“It’s not just focus, though, like on a strike or a spell. She is teaching me to . . .” Kenzie’s voice drifted away. Shapeless ideas, more like suspicions, snapped into a framework. “To be me. Focus on my core, my essence.” Kenzie pursed her lips. “Are you in cahoots with Jules? Has everyone been lying to me?”
Harold shook his head. “I have never met the woman, though I would like to someday. Nor, to answer the next question, have I or anyone that I know of influenced her to train you in a specific manner. Your sabomnim is an exceptionally perceptive teacher who discovered what you, Kenzie Graham, needed, and also had the skill to teach you.”
A heavy weight lifted from Kenzie’s heart. “Next question then. Why do weird things keep happening at the studio?” She described her battle with the ogre and her latest misstep in breaking the changing room door.
“You missed the actual question,” Harold admonished. “What is reality? That was my work, and Eddie would have expanded it if he had survived.”
I don’t know my real dad. “What happened to him?” Kenzie whispered.
“He was killed in a lab explosion during an experiment.” Harold’s voice caught. “He thought he could generate magic artificially.”
“MAGE?”
“Is that what they call it? Ridiculous name, but yes. Sasha has chased that mirage for two decades, more or less.”
“Why?”
“Why does someone so bountifully gifted seek more? Because for some, the allure of power outweighs any shred of decency. Sasha cannot abide any wizard being more powerful, and that includes you and your mother. You are rivals, whether you realize it or not.” Harold’s voice rasped with anger. “She led the coalition that confronted Elowyn to force her to marry within the . . . Families.”
The pause lasted for so brief a time that Kenzie questioned if she’d heard it at all. “Elowyn married Eddie, though?”
“She did. The confrontation with Sasha was after that, though. After your father died, Sasha tried to force her to return to the Family, under its control. Apostates are not to be tolerated.” Harold changed the subject abruptly. “Next question.”
“Matthias pretended to put a spell on Jackson and Jackson pretended to go along with it. Why?”
“You know this how?”
She recounted confronting her bodyguard outside the studio. Jackson hadn’t betrayed a flicker of concern at her discovery. That, more than anything else, frustrated her.
“I can tell when magic is being used,” Kenzie had told Jackson then, and now, word for word, she said the same to Harold.
The wizard’s eyebrow rose again. “And what did Mr. Jackson say?”
“‘Can you now?’” Kenzie mimicked Jackson’s wry intonation, the scene playing out again in her head.
Then, Jackson had put his sunglasses on and stared at her from behind the darkened lenses. “I don’t believe in magic.” Not an ounce of surprise, no mockery. Driving in the light traffic, he had ignored her questions and dropped her off into the care of her father. Only then did he slip out of his role as a bodyguard. Jackson brought a finger to his lips. Like she needed the advice to keep quiet.
Kenzie continued after filling in the facts. “What I don’t understand is why he pretended to be under a spell from Mercury.” She rolled the name in her head. It fit the man better than “Matthias.” In Mitch’s garage, the wizard had moved his hand like he was casting some sort of spell, but it was all playacting. He hadn’t imbued the gesture with any sort of energy. Total fakery, except her bodyguard had gone along with it.
Harold stood and began to pace, hands folded behind his back. “You are not the only one who is being trained.” He made an about-face at the far end of his path, but before he could elaborate, a commotion sprang up at the entrance to his private enclosure.
“Harold!” The imperious voice vibrated with indignation. “We have matters to discuss.” Agnes stomped into the warm light of Harold’s home, oblivious to the disrespect for his privacy.
Harold’s complexion took on a waxy hue and fear crept into his eyes.
Agnes caught sight of Kenzie, and her mouth dropped open. Her lower jaw flapped a couple of times before the woman managed to spit out words. “McKenzie Graham! Why are you here with this . . . ?” Her voice faltered for a second, and then picked up steam on a note of righteousness. “And dressed that way!”
Kenzie’s head jerked down. She’d forgotten that she was dressed mundanely. Worse, the woman was certain to tell Sasha that Kenzie was at the Glade.
Harold interjected before Kenzie could speak. “I invited Miss Graham for some advanced training.”
Kenzie cataloged all the things wrong with the statement, like when he invited her, how she got here, and who okayed more training for her. This was going to blow up on both of them. Speechless and wooden-faced, she waited for a deluge of reprobation from the old harridan.
Agnes, after delivering a startled look to Harold, inadvertently came to Kenzie’s aid by storming out, muttering about the impropriety.
Harold strode to Kenzie’s side. “You have to leave now, quickly. Go back the way you came. If asked, say I created the portal for you.” His hand shook on her shoulder. “Quickly, go.”
“I still have more questions.”
“Not now, Kenzie.” His eyes were wide. “It was dangerous for you to come, for both of us. Now, run!” His hand slipped from her shoulder to her back and pushed.
Harold’s frightened face and panicky words fueled a contagious response in her. Fear gripped her, and she stumbled to the edge of his space. Kenzie looked back.
Harold, looking frail, pushed air with his hand. “Go.”
Kenzie obeyed. She hurtled along the trail to the lagoon at top speed, picturing the wrath of the Family chasing her. Harold’s reaction told her she was in more trouble than she ever dreamed.
Chapter 34
Mitch cooperated by not struggling against the magical bonds. He was outnumbered, they both dwarfed him, they were probably armed, and they could use magic. What else was he supposed to do?
He did know the first thing he was going to do when he got face-to-face with Hunter, assuming he was able to move. Mitch was going to unload on the son of a bitch, one shot with all he had before anyone could react to stop him. All he needed was a fraction of a second, and he’d live with the consequences. Probably. Maybe. Regardless, he was getting mighty tired of the tantrums from his former friend.
He tried counting turns and time. It looked easier in movies. He guessed he was being transported to the Rubiera compound, but he was so disoriented that he wouldn’t have been surprised if they dumped him in Tacoma. The vehicle slowed, swayed ponderously, and made a left-hand turn. A minute later, the driver killed the engine. They unloaded him with all the care shared with a bag of charcoal. One beefy hand from each man snagged him under the armpits, and they carried him down the path to the mansion. He could feel his toes bouncing and scuffing against the stone walk.
His initial impression, days ago, of the Rubiera home didn’t do it justice. Mitch’s keen eye picked apart the intricate details of the wo
odwork and stonemasonry. It was artistry.
They deposited him on a wide veranda and the smaller of the two gorillas went into the home. Mitch watched the feet disappear past a set of French doors inlaid with real leaded glass, from what Mitch could tell. A quiet buzz of conversation floated out to him. The stone of the veranda cooled his cheek, and he strained his ears to gather a hint of what was being said.
An unfamiliar pair of expensive-looking shoes appeared. Above them, perfectly creased pants. The owner spoke. “Please release Mr. Meriwether, Walter, and help him to his feet.” The voice carried unchallenged authority beneath the pleasing bass.
Control returned to Mitch’s limbs. As Walter reached down to aid him, Mitch did a rapid reassessment. The “Mr. Rubiera” wasn’t Hunter; it was his father. Mitch grabbed the proffered hand and leveraged himself to his feet. He avoided looking at Rubiera. He rolled his shoulders and took in the stunning view of sailboats on Lake Washington.
Mitch’s mind raced. If Hunter’s father wanted to talk with him, then he was in a heap of trouble. The litany of potential problems seemed long enough, but one fact stood out over the others. The worm or virus he had installed for Hunter had gotten Garrett killed. Fast. Mitch gulped back a reaction to his guilt in the murder. He turned to face Rubiera, the instigator of the whole mess. He froze his face into a mask to cover his turmoil.
The elder Rubiera regarded him silently. His shrewd eyes held as much warmth as a rattlesnake’s. The small hairs on the back of Mitch’s neck rose.
“Mr. Meriwether, do you know what the record is for getting hit by lightning?”
Mitch’s gaze darted around looking for an answer to the apparent non sequitur. Hold your ground, don’t let him know your knees are knocking. “No, sir.”
“Seven,” the man said. “Seven times a man named Roy Sullivan was struck. After the second, people began to suspect it was not coincidence.”
Mitch said nothing, but had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed. He’d been through this with Mercury.