Science and Sorcery

by Christopher Nuttall

  The logical part of Misty’s mind agreed that he had a point. Sometimes teachers snapped – having to tolerate misbehaviour without real disciplinary powers did that to a person - and that could be very bad for the unlucky kids. It had received far less publicity than kids who were bullied to the point where they snapped and brought guns to school to shoot as many people as they could, but it did happen. But the emotional part of her mind raged that she had done nothing wrong. She didn't deserve to be suspended.

  She could go to the union. But right now, with a nutty Senator stirring up trouble against magicians and a police report on her actions, justified or not, she knew that the union might not close ranks behind her. Later, perhaps...

  “You will still be on full pay,” the principal said, trying to sweeten the pill. “And you can return to work as soon as you are cleared...”

  Misty gathered herself. “And how is that to be determined?”

  “I do not know,” the principal said.

  “I see,” Misty said. She stood up. “This is a case of discrimination against someone possessing traits they cannot control. Racism, in other words. You will be hearing from my lawyer about it.”

  She stalked out of the room, trying to fight down the crushing sense of despair. Racism or not – if the magicians counted as a separate race, which was debatable – she doubted that it would ever come to court. Depending on how one looked at it, the principal was doing the right thing – taking precautions that might not be necessary, but had to be taken all the same. And the rage was fuelling her magic...all the discipline she'd learned, to handle unruly kids without murdering them or their parents, didn't seem enough to hold it in check. She felt sweat running down her face and almost walked right into the suited man before noticing him.

  “Miss Reynolds?”

  “Yes?” Misty snapped at him. It wasn't his fault that she was so angry, but she couldn't help it. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Muldoon, Special Agent Muldoon of the FBI,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I have already talked to the police,” Misty said, bitterly. “And look what it got me.”

  “Ah,” Muldoon said. “I think you misunderstand me. I'm not here to arrest you, or to give you grief. I’m here to recruit you.”

  Misty blinked. “For the FBI?”

  “For the...study group established to research magic,” Muldoon explained. “The NYPD should have pointed you towards us when you told them what had happened, but the wires got crossed.” He shrugged. “I’d like to invite you to Washington to join the research program.”

  “To be examined by doctors to see if they can tell how I do whatever it is I do,” Misty guessed. Muldoon didn't bother to tell her any differently. “Why should I want to go to Washington?”

  Muldoon smiled. “Right now, there are plenty of spaces for magicians willing to work for the government,” he said. “You would be paid well for your time, enough so you wouldn't have to go back to teaching, and you might find a more...interesting career using and studying magic. And besides, the media is hunting you. You might find it quieter on a military base.”

  Misty hesitated. Had the FBI agent known that she would be suspended? Or had he arranged it? Perhaps they’d intended to cut her loose from her duties to the school before making their formal offer, knowing that she wouldn't be in a good position to refuse. But...he was right. It was one hell of an opportunity. And besides, it would be easier to press her suit against the school if she had money.

  “Thank you,” she said. “When do we leave?”

  ***

  Layla had become a Goth at fourteen and, despite increasingly unsubtle hints from her mother that it was time she grew up and started taking life seriously, she’d never bothered to change. It was a way of rebelling against a society that didn't really offer its children any hopes or dreams; the days she spent taking drugs or drinking herself into a stupor were days when she didn't know that she was going to end up flipping burgers at some appallingly tacky fast food outlet. Or possibly die out on the streets. Her mother worked two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and Layla knew, one day, that it would come to an end.

  She had been feeling listless for two days, as if she’d caught a mild cold. Her mother had barely noticed; working as she did, she trusted Layla to effectively raise herself, getting out of bed and going to school – or playing truant – as she chose. There was no point in going to school, Layla had discovered long ago; there was little hope of any real future. The girl who had dreamed of flying through outer space had grown up to realise that there was no program intended to put mankind on the moon to stay, let alone further away from Earth. They were trapped on an increasingly crappy world, fucked over by politicians, fanatics and terrorists alike. Even the news that magic was real – as if she could believe that crap – hadn't broken through her skull. No doubt all the wonder would be sucked out by politicians before too long, leaving only a dying husk of something that had once been great. Just like the rest of the world.

  Carefully, Layla rolled over in bed and looked down at herself. At sixteen, she’d grown into a young woman, with long dark hair and eyes that the guys never saw, because they were too busy staring at her chest. Her skin was pale; the black lipstick she used stood out oddly against her skin, an effect that had never bothered Layla herself. Once, her mother had forced her to scrub it off before she went to school; now, her mother never bothered. It was as through the listlessness that was affecting Layla had also affected her mother.

  Her legs trembled as she stood up, feeling the room spinning around her. Something was definitely not right...maybe she was dying, perhaps. She would have said that she was hungry, if she hadn't eaten earlier. Death would be a blessing, the release from a mundane life that had been ruined long before she'd been born. There was no hope of a better life for her, or for her mother. Why not worship death?

  She stumbled forwards until she was facing the mirror, a gift from one of her mother’s temporary boyfriends who had tried to buy Layla’s affection, if not love. Maybe he would have made a decent father...Layla didn't know, because she’d never had a father. He’d left her mother months before Layla was born. Using one hand to hold herself upwards, she looked in the mirror and recoiled. She couldn't see her face.

  For a moment, she was convinced that she was imagining it. Her black shirt and tight jeans just seemed to hang in the air, unsupported by her body. But her face seemed to be completely transparent, as if she’d turned invisible. Shocked, she glanced down at her hand and saw that it was still visible, yet when she looked in the mirror she couldn't see her flesh. On impulse, she pulled up her shirt, exposing her midriff. She could see her shirt through where her flesh and blood should be.

  Her hand went to her mouth and touched something else, sharp fangs. The listlessness, whatever it was, had dulled her mind. Sharp fangs, an inability to see herself in a mirror...she was a vampire! She leapt upwards and cracked her head into the ceiling, before falling down to the ground. How could she have leapt so high?

  Vampires are strong, she thought, numbly. There had been reports of vampires on the internet, along with werewolves, mermaids and things that went bump in the night, but she hadn't believed any of them. And yet...she reached up and touched her fangs again. They were real, and she was hungry. Vampires ate blood...and somehow she knew that the burger she’d cooked for herself, with catsup and cheese, hadn't been what her new body wanted. She needed blood.

  Shaking, she walked over to the window and opened the curtains. Night was falling over New York, the darkness calling her out to hunt. She knew that the thought of hunting humans should have bothered her, but the bloodlust overwhelmed any such concerns. It felt natural and right to regard humans as her prey. Humans hunted animals to eat their flesh; why should vampires not hunt humans to drain their blood? But as the hunger started to overcome her, rationality faded away. There was no need to justify herself to herself.

  Layla walked downsta
irs and opened the door, feeling steadier on her feet as she stepped outside. Her senses seemed to have changed; she was suddenly very aware of every smell in the air, along with the presence of dogs, cats and rats in the surrounding area. Some vampires had been able to fly, according to legends, but when she jumped into the air she found herself tumbling back towards the ground. She landed neatly, like a cat, and headed away from their apartment. Some ancient instinct told her that it would be unwise to hunt too near her home.

  The darkness seemed to grow stronger as she walked, as if it were somehow absorbing the light from the streetlights and surrounding houses. Layla knew that would have disturbed her, once upon a time, but her new eyes seemed to be capable of seeing within pitch darkness, effortlessly. She kept her distance from others on the streets, even through the bloodlust was growing stronger, affecting her ability to think. A sniff was enough to tell her that many of the street people – the homeless – were either ill or too badly drugged up to make good eating for a vampire. Absently, she wondered if she was allergic to garlic. She couldn't recall ever trying it before she’d discovered her true nature.

  Her ears, as enhanced as the rest of her senses, heard a scream in the distance. The old Layla would have ignored it, knowing that there was no point in interfering, but the new Layla seemed to find the scream temping. She ran forward into a darkened alleyway, navigating it as easily as if it had been in the middle of the day, and saw a woman forced over a dustbin by a young man. Layla’s nose told her things she didn't want to know about him; he was drunk enough to dull his thoughts and bent on getting laid, even if the girl didn't want to get fucked. His hands were tearing through her panties and pressing into her groin, trying to force her to become wet, ready for the rape. The girl’s struggles were futile.

  Layla acted without thinking, driven by a primal instinct that was older than recorded history, if the internet was to be believed. The rapist looked up as she ran towards him, far too late to escape. Her hand became a claw that sliced through his neck, sending his body collapsing to the ground and his head flying off into the distance. The stench of blood, even contaminated blood, drove away what little rationality Layla had left. She turned as the woman straightened up, trying to pull her torn panties up to cover her modesty, and lunged at her. The woman had no time to scream before Layla’s fangs plunged into her neck and started to drain her blood.

  The sensation was fantastic. Layla felt herself growing stronger with every sip, as if she could arm-wrestle a bear and win. Perhaps she could; she knew, on some level, that she was draining the woman’s life force to replenish her own. Could she turn her into another vampire? Would one bite suffice to start the process that would change a human into a bloodsucking monster? Or did it take something more complicated?

  Layla started backwards, looking down at the woman’s body. It looked to have been almost completely drained of blood. On her neck, the fang marks stood out clearly, a sign to anyone of just what had happened. Layla knew that she should have felt sick – she’d just killed a human being and drained her blood – but instead she felt exultant. This was what she had been born to be. She was no longer powerless. Taking one last look at the body, she turned and walked away, heading back home. Sunlight, according to legends, was deadly to vampires and she had no desire to test that theory, not yet. It crossed her mind that she should, that she had become a monster, but she banished the thought with ease. She was something wild and glorious, a creature of the night. Who cared if one or two humans died when she needed to feed?

  She was still laughing when she reached home and stumbled upstairs to bed. Her mother wasn't home yet, thankfully, sparing her the need to explain her fangs. Vampires were also supposed to be able to influence minds, weren't they? She’d better hope they could, she told herself, or her mother would know that something was very wrong. And then she might call the cops.

  Inwardly, Layla laughed. She was strong and powerful and righteous. What could the cops do to her?

  ***

  Officer Pasha scowled down at the bodies, using a cup of coffee to warm his hands as the forensic team began their work. A wandering bum had found the bodies while looking for a place to sleep and reported them to the police, who had dispatched several officers to check the report. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had called in a false report in hopes of spending a night inside a cell, rather than on the streets. But the bodies had been real, and they’d been warned to look out for anything supernatural. The marks on the girl’s neck were alarming enough to prompt the first responders to call for a forensic team in a hurry.

  “I think that the girl is almost completely drained of blood,” one of the medics said. “I’d need a proper autopsy to be sure, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Pasha nodded, impatiently. If this was a vampire, and this wasn't the first reported vampire attack since the magic had started to return, it would have drunk the girl’s blood. But the young man was also dead, his blood pooled on the ground, and the vampire didn't seem to have drunk it. Maybe there was something wrong with it. There was no way to know.

  “I’ll inform the chief,” he said, tiredly. The FBI had issued specific instructions that every case that might be supernatural was to be passed over to them and, as far as he knew, the NYPD hadn't bothered to demur. No one wanted this hot potato in their lap. “We’ll see if we can get the bodies out before the media gets wind of it.”

  It was futile, of course. By the time they started moving the bodies, a small army of reporters and sightseers had gathered to watch proceedings. It would be all over the world in a few hours. And then there would be panic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Washington DC, USA

  Day 16

  The media seemed to be having some problems deciding what it was going to turn into a circus, Caitlyn decided as the car drove through the crowds surrounding the White House. First, there was Senator Whitehall’s new campaign to bring magic under firm control, which promised political blood in the water before too long, and then there was the vampire attack in New York. It wasn't the first vampire attack – the first had taken place during the same night the werewolves had appeared – but no one would have known that from reading the newspapers. Given what Golem had said about vampires and sunlight, it was possible that the first vampire had either been caught outside or had committed suicide.

  “It takes around five days for a drained person to rise again as a vampire,” Golem had said, “and it doesn't always work. But you need to destroy the body now, just in case.”

  Caitlyn had agreed, although the autopsy had turned up nothing out of the ordinary, or at least nothing connected to mana. Matt had developed a sense for magical creatures and he’d reported that the dead body didn't seem to trigger them, but it made him uneasy. Unwilling to take chances, Caitlyn had ordered the body beheaded, and then cremated. Nothing should be able to come back from that.

  She scowled as she saw the two groups of protesters, threatening to charge each other despite the presence of hundreds of police officers. One group thought that Whitehall was entirely correct and that there should be new laws against magic, as well as tough restrictions placed on werewolves and anyone else with magical traits passed down from Golem’s time. The other thought that such rules were unconstitutional, a restraint on personal liberties, and wanted to ensure that magicians and magical creatures – the Changed, as the media was starting to refer to them – received their full constitutional rights. On the internet, according to the analysts monitoring various forums, the debate had already led to outright flame wars and trolling. It might not be long before the real world debates turned violent.

  It was a relief when the car finally reached the side entrance and she walked into the White House, passing through the security check. The Secret Service had grown a great deal more paranoid after hearing about Voodoo magic being worked in New Orleans, to the point where they had confiscated the dolls from a party of young girl scouts who had vi
sited the White House. Caitlyn had heard that the President had been scathing about the whole affair, although – oddly – the media hadn't picked up on it. Senator Whitehall and his campaign presumably made better news.

  This time, the Secret Service escort led her upstairs and into the Oval Office, where the President was seated behind his desk. He looked older than Caitlyn remembered, although that could have been stress. His Cabinet was not in evidence; the only people in the room were the President’s legal advisor, the National Security Advisor, and General McClellan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Thank you for coming,” the President said, as he waved her to a chair. General McClellan fetched her a cup of coffee, although she wasn't sure if it was courtesy or a simple acknowledgement that the meeting was going to be bad. “As you can see, the White House is under siege.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Caitlyn said. She felt hopelessly out of her depth. Tomlinson, her superior, hadn’t been invited to the meeting. What did that mean?