Wild Magic

by Ann Macela

  “Now you’re after Finster and Ubell.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I thought we had the case sewed up with the info from the flash drives, but you people are changing my mind.” He waved his fork at her. “How about you? How’d you get into planning events? I’d have thought you’d be like those two who showed up at your office. The Blakes?”

  “Oh, please, don’t remind me,” she said with a shiver of repugnance. “Tiffany’s getting married, and they wanted me to manage her wedding. No way. In the first place, I don’t do weddings, and in the second, I wouldn’t run hers, no matter whose daughter she is. It would be a fast trip to either insanity or homicide. No, I run charitable and corporate events, period. My talents for organizing and detail came to me early—I guess I’ve always had them. My brother always teased me about how tidy my room was. Of course, he lived in a pigpen.”

  Jim laughed, and his golden-green eyes twinkled. He looked so darned wonderful Irenee suddenly wanted to throw herself into his arms. She was barely holding onto the chair arms as it was. His expression abruptly sobered, and he stared right back at her.

  Only the waiter’s return to remove their dinner plates broke the impasse. She rearranged her napkin, took a sip of water, and pretended nothing had happened. Jim didn’t say anything and only looked off into space—although he seemed as baffled as she was.

  Jim’s eyes grew round when he saw their desserts—large pieces of fudge cake with raspberry sauce. “This is your ‘usual’? Where do you put it all?”

  “Casting spells uses energy. It has to come from somewhere, and since we don’t have a god to give it to us or a long extension cord to a power plant, it’s our body’s internal caloric energy. The higher the spell level, the more often you cast, the more energy you use. If you don’t replenish yourself, you’ll lose weight. The only fat practitioners you’ll see are usually pretty old and not casting much. I’ve been casting a lot of spells lately” She took a bite. “Hmmmm. It’s warm, too.”

  His eyes zeroed in on her lips when she licked them. His gaze had a tactile quality, and she wondered how it would be if he touched her mouth—or kissed her. She blinked and came back from her reverie. Where was she going with these crazy notions? Where were they coming from?

  He seemed to be caught up in the same sort of problem—she wasn’t alone in these long eye-locks. To see what he’d do, she savored every bite of her cake, making sure she licked all the fudgy goodness from her fork.

  On her third lick, he groaned and applied himself to his own dessert. She stifled a giggle. When he finished, he studied the other diners, but she could tell he was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

  When she put her fork down for the last time, he leaned back and pointed upward. “What do you think we’re going to learn when we go back up there? What idea do you think Whipple had to work on? Do you think he’ll figure out where the ‘item’ is?”

  She took a sip of coffee and pondered. “I honestly don’t know the answers to any of your questions. This is my first experience with a major artifact.”

  “So, you’re a what-did-he-call-it, a Sword?”

  “Yes, I developed my talents late, and I’ve only been a Sword since I was eighteen. I didn’t start training in item destruction until four years ago.”

  Jim leaned on his elbows toward her across the table. “How do you do it, destroy one of these items? What kind of sword do you use?”

  “It looks like a Roman shortsword, and it’s made of magical energy, not steel. Let’s simply say destruction is not easy” She repressed a shudder at the memory of the Stone’s attacks. Not a story she wanted to tell at the moment. Pushing her chair back, she said, “We’re due upstairs. I hope Fergus and Dad have some answers for both of us.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Come in, come in,” Whipple boomed when they returned. “I have some interesting ideas to discuss.”

  Jim let Irenee precede him into the condo while he wondered what surprises Whipple had conjured up while they were gone. Before they had walked three steps in, an older woman came out of the kitchen.

  She approached him, held out her hand, and said, “Hello, Jim, I’m Bridget, Fergus’s wife.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He shook hands with her. Whipple’s wife was stunning—tall, imposing, silver hair, and like her husband, it was impossible to tell her true age. She had an air of calmness about her, putting him—and probably everyone—at ease.

  “And Irenee!” Bridget gave her a big hug. “I heard we had some excitement while I was gone. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. How was your medical conference?” Irenee answered.

  “My wife is a pediatrician,” Whipple, informed Jim.

  “The usual—a few good papers and lots of medical gossip,” Bridget said, dismissing her meeting with a wave of her hand. “Since you’re in my living room, I’ve invited myself into your discussion. Can I get anyone something to drink before we get started?”

  Everyone declined, and they all took seats again—Irenee in her original chair, Whipple in his. Jim snagged the end of the couch closest to Irenee, and Bridget sat on the other end. Sabel pulled up a chair from the dining table.

  Whipple stretched out his legs and studied Jim over steepled fingers. “We have a puzzle to solve where you’re concerned, Tylan.”

  His statement made Jim sit up straight. His hunch antennae quivered—not in a warning fashion, but more of a wait-and-see mode. A small wave of electricity rushed through him, as though something good was about to happen. He squelched his reactions. Don’t get excited. No telling what this bunch would come up with.

  “First, we have a few questions,” Whipple, added.

  Figured. Jim crossed his arms over his chest and gave the older man one of his “cop” looks—the kind declaring, “This had better be good.”

  “Since Irenee reported your being in Finster’s study and your surprising ability to see her, we’ve been investigating you.” He held up a hand when Jim rolled his shoulders in a get-on-with-it fashion. “Not in the way you probably think, however. We’ve been looking into your ancestry in particular, because the evidence points to your having some magic skill.”

  “Wait just a damn minute,” Jim said, shaking his head. These people were incredible. Him? With magic skill? “That’s screwy. I am not one of you.”

  “So it would appear from your family lineage, at least as far as we can trace your bloodline,” Sabel interjected. “We’re only to about 1850 at the moment.”

  Jim shot a glance at Irenee, who appeared to be as surprised by the news as he was. It was curious, though—despite the outrageous claim, he wasn’t picking up any premonitions about their statements’ truth.

  “However,” Whipple, continued, “there are more than a few instances throughout our history where a person unconnected to us developed practitioner talents on his own. Through a quirk in DNA or some lucky convergence of the stars? We don’t know. Such spontaneous development is probably the way talents started in the first place. We haven’t been able to track our talents to specific genes, by the way”

  “What, I’m a mutation?” This was getting weirder by the minute. First, his hunch mechanism was sitting there like a lump, seemingly asleep despite these wild allegations, and now Whipple thought he could do magic stuff. What next?

  “The term is a little harsh, but exactly what you are has yet to be seen.” Whipple stroked his beard. “There are two aspects of magic to consider in our decision: spell radiances and spell auras. First, you can see spell radiances. Casting a spell on an object causes it to glow. If a practitioner has the innate ability or casts the specific spell, he can see the luminescence. You saw the glow from the spells I cast on the bowl, the picture, and my staff, correct?”

  Jim looked at the objects in question. They still glowed. “Correct.”

  “You saw the protective spells on Finster’s safe, and you saw Irenee’s invisibility radiance.”

  “If you say so. I’m not
convinced of that.”

  “If the practitioner casts a spell on himself, he will also glow,” Whipple continued. “We don’t know why or how you are able to see through her spells. We have some theories, but no firm conclusions.”

  Man, this magic stuff kept getting more and more complicated, Jim thought. He said only, “Okay”

  “Second are spell auras. When actually casting, a practitioner creates a spell aura around his body, and it can often be seen by family members. The proficiency to see a nonrelated person’s aura is rare, and you don’t seem to have that. What you can do, spontaneously see spell glows, however, is much rarer.”

  “Maybe I’m peculiar that way.” Jim shrugged and turned to Irenee. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should listen to Fergus and my father. Something’s going on, because you’re seeing through my spells.” She smiled at him. “Besides, if it’s your innate talents, I’m not making a mistake with my magic.”

  “Great,” Jim muttered. “Okay, I have some abilities—maybe. What’s next?” He unfolded his arms, snapped his fingers on both hands, and pointed at the coffee table. “Abracadabra! It’s a pony?”

  Whipple chuckled, Sabel shook his head, and the two women smiled.

  “Not exactly,” Sabel said. “We also learned you have a reputation within your agency for your intuition, prescience, capacity, whatever term you like, to put two and two together and get answers when nobody can even frame the questions. You solve the case when others are totally mystified. A couple of your fellows think you’re psychic, while others call you a wizard. You merely say you have a ‘hunch’ about something.”

  It took effort, but Jim kept his expression flat. “How did you find all this out?”

  “Let’s simply say we have our sources,” Sabel answered dryly. “Did I state the situation correctly about your hunches? Did you have one a little while ago when you shut your eyes and put your hands on your head after we told you about Finster and the Defenders?”

  Jim crossed his arms again, let his eyes go unfocused, and thought about those questions for a long moment. While he did, his hunch antennae didn’t move, didn’t even twitch, although the area right under his sternum heated up considerably. Oh, great. Heartburn, too. He glanced around the circle. They waited with an expectant air.

  He couldn’t accept their words as gospel. Not yet, anyway. “Maybe I was trying to wake myself up or calm myself down. My God, you’d just told me my prime suspect was one of these practitioners, he had an evil magic item, and you destroyed it. Because of all these events, I may never bring him or his coconspirators to justice.”

  He shrugged. “Or maybe I decided I was with a bunch of crazies and needed to humor you because you might really know something. What makes you think I was having a hunch?”

  “Because you were glowing,” Irenee said. “You had a spell aura about you. Why or how I could see it, I haven’t a clue, but it was a bright blue.”

  “I was glowing?” Her statement brought him to his feet. He pointed at her, then himself. “You saw me shining like a lightbulb?”

  She rose also and pointed back at him. “Yes, you,” she answered, raising her chin, almost daring him to dispute her. She poked him in the chest with her finger, hitting him right in the solar plexus, punctuating her comments. “Glowing. Exactly like the floor safe. Only blue. That means magic, and the color indicates you have a high level potential, the power to cast some heavy-duty spells.”

  Jim gasped when her finger hit his chest again and a bolt of fire spread from it throughout his body. He grabbed her hand before she could poke him again. Their connection only increased the heat. Every muscle in him tightened, and a fierce arousal prowled through his bloodstream. And went south.

  He stared into those dark eyes ... and tugged her closer ... and lowered his head ... and was about to kiss her...

  ... when he heard Whipple say, “I told you so,” and the sound pulled him back from the brink.

  Her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, Irenee blinked at him, but didn’t otherwise move.

  Jim looked at their hands—which radiated a faint, flickering glimmer—and slowly released hers. The vague shine vanished. She abruptly sat down and continued to gaze at him with an expression of both confusion and alarm.

  He turned toward the two men. “All right, what happened here? What did you do? Cast a spell on me or us? What the hell is going on?”

  “I think your magic talents are beginning to reveal themselves,” Whipple said and grinned.

  “So?” Stepping past Irenee, who still seemed shocked, Jim paced around the room for a few seconds. Their claims were unbelievable, totally ludicrous. Why couldn’t he seem to find any reasons or facts to deny them? He extended a questioning hand to the group. “This is absolutely crazy. How in the hell could I be one of you? How could I do magic?”

  “You could,” Sabel said, “if you’re what we call a ‘wild talent,’ someone who develops talents spontaneously. As I said, we don’t know how it happens, because there haven’t been enough people available to study or we haven’t gotten to them in their formative stages. We have learned that abilities do seem to show up more readily when one is around other practitioners. You’ve probably had dormant talents at least since puberty”

  “You’re damn lucky we found you,” Whipple, interjected. “Wild talents have been known to become seriously disturbed trying to reconcile their magic with the everyday world.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! First I’m a mutant. Now I’m going to go nuts?” Jim threw himself back into his seat on the couch.

  As he did, his hunch antennae quivered and, he could swear, began to jiggle and wave and almost do the boogie. If those effects weren’t bad enough, a spear of heat, then cold, then heat again, hit him right in the breastbone. He doubled over and groaned, “Holy shit!”

  Irenee knelt immediately in front of him, and he grasped her hands as if holding on to a lifeline. Bridget slid over to hold his arm and rub his back.

  “Take it easy, Jim,” Bridget said, and her calm voice and touch somewhat soothed the tumult inside him.

  Irenee held his hands inside hers, and warmth—or something—flowed from her to his middle. A sense of contentment settled on him when the bombardment of hot and cold stopped.

  In the center under his breastbone, however, something grew. Another organ? No, impossible. But something was there that hadn’t been there before.

  He sat up slowly and locked gazes with Irenee again. Because it vaguely seemed the thing to do, he brought their clasped hands up to his chest. When they touched the spot in the middle of his body, everything in him—his hunch mechanism, his muscles, whatever was beneath his sternum—all relaxed.

  “Are you all right?” Irenee asked, almost whispering, her big brown eyes as soft as melted chocolate.

  He took a deep breath. No pain. Only contentment. “I think so. My insides seem to be working properly again.”

  Bridget put her hand on his forehead, before moving it to take his pulse. “No fever, and your heartbeat is a little rapid but strong. Any trouble breathing?”

  “No. I think my chest was about to explode.” He rubbed his hands and Irenee’s—he hadn’t let go of hers yet—over the end of his sternum. His eye and hand contact with her formed a bond he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, release. He did manage to mutter, “What the hell is going on? What did you do to me?”

  “We did nothing. You didn’t have a heart attack, either. What you felt was your magic center coming to consciousness,” Bridget said, sitting back in her spot on the couch.

  “Magic center,” Jim repeated. He straightened Irenee’s fingers and flattened her hands on his chest on either side of his breastbone. Warmth and pleasure and peace spread from her touch. He wouldn’t mind staying in such a state of euphoria forever.

  Irenee stared into the golden green of Jim’s eyes while his magic energy pulsed under her fingers. The man truly was a wild talent, one of some strength and power. Her
center thrilled to the energy flowing from him to her and back again. He must be a Defender, as well. How else could they be sharing power like this?

  Before she could say anything, her father was helping her to rise. Jim released her hands, and the movement took her away from him. Her center seemed to sigh.

  She could see Jim’s eyes focus when he came out of the trance they had both been in. He looked around the group. “What the hell just happened?”

  “How do you feel?” Bridget asked.

  “Fine ...” He studied his hands, rubbed them over his chest, and took a deep breath. “At least I think I do. Most of me does. Right here”—he pointed to his sternum—“feels different somehow.”

  “It’s your power reserve, your magic center,” Irenee told him. “Remember when I said casting spells uses your body’s internal energy? The spot behind your breastbone is where your magic energy resides. You’ll concentrate on it when you want to cast a spell.”

  “That’s the damnedest thing I ever heard.” Jim shook his head, and when he spread a hand over his center, he frowned. “Something’s vibrating inside me.”

  “You’ve never felt it before?” Fergus asked. “Not even during one of your hunches?”

  “No. They’re all in my head,” Jim answered. “The ‘big’ hunches come to me in a huge rush. I can almost feel my head exploding with the knowledge. For the little ones, it’s like being hit over the head with a hammer. Oh, wait a minute. Lately, they’ve been more like a punch in the stomach.”

  Irenee leaned forward. She would have liked to touch him, but would doing so throw them into that weird state where the world came down to the two of them and nobody else existed? Definitely something to think about later. Right this instant, they had to help him. “The first time I cast my sword, it felt like a blow to my center. What was the hunch you had here before, the one where you held your head and shut your eyes? Was it big or little? What was it about?”

  “Big. It told me to believe you about this magic stuff.” He scratched the back of his head like it itched.