A Wizard of the White Council

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ally nodded. “Thank you.” She headed out of the office, looked at her watch, and groaned.

  So much for lunch.

  ###

  Ally took a deep breath, smelling the coffee and the bagels.

  Rows of booths lined the coffeehouse’s walls, while tables stood strewn about the floor. A long bar ran the length of one wall, covered with an impressing array of gleaming coffee-producing machinery. Students sat at the booths and tables, books, notebooks, and papers spread out before them. Dozens typed on laptops.

  Ally had never seen so many berets, goatees, and pink-striped hairdos in one place.

  She made for the cash register. A bearded student in a black polo shirt ran the register, multiple earrings glimmering in his ears and lips. Ally shuddered. She hated needles, and had never even gotten her ears pierced.

  “Can I help you?” said pierced student. He frowned. “Are…you okay?”

  Ally stammered. “It….those lip rings…”

  A memory of iron claws ripping through flesh shot through her mind…

  The cashier grinned. “You like them?” He fingered a lip ring with a red stone. “I just had this one done last week.”

  Ally shook her head. “How can you do that to yourself?”

  The cashier rolled his eyes, his eyebrow rings glittering. “You sound like my parents.”

  “I mean, just…just the feeling of metal ripping through your skin. How can you stand that?” Ally began to shiver.

  The cashier looked frightened. “You sure you’re okay?” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is it a bad trip? Are you having a bad trip?”

  Ally’s unease vanished with a laugh. “Oh, God, no. I’m sorry. Just a long day, you know?”

  The cashier grinned, his lip rings gleaming in his beard. “Amen and hallelujah to that. So…um…you doing anything later?”

  “Yes,” said Ally. “And I’ll take a grilled cheese sandwich, an apple, and a regular coffee.”

  The cashier sighed and took her order. A few moments later she took her tray and navigated through the crowd. She found an empty two-person booth in the corner and sat down, dropping her backpack and the tray on the table. Ally sighed and put her feet up. She had to stop skipping meals.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention!” A male student in a dark suit stood atop a table, waving his arms. He had Wycliffe/Jones and Gracchan Party campaign buttons on the lapels of his coat.

  “You and I are the future of this nation,” said the Gracchan student, his eyes wide and fervent. “We will, one day, be the United States of America. And our future has been mismanaged. Greedy businessmen and corrupt politicians are bankrupting the country, destroying the environment, and plundering your natural resources.” He sounded like many of the other campus radicals Ally had heard in the last few weeks. “Are we going to just sit back and let them despoil our future? I urge you, in the name of all that is good and right, to join the Gracchan Party Students’ Organization.”

  A few students cheered. Most ignored him. Ally shivered and huddled deeper into her booth. She remembered her conversation with Dr. Francis and what her parents had told her about Wycliffe. Perhaps Wycliffe had been involved in Katrina’s stay in the hospital or perhaps not.

  She didn’t want to think about it too much.

  “All alone?”

  Ally glanced up. The Gracchan student stood over the table, his eyes gleaming with intensity.

  “Yeah,” said Ally. “I’d prefer to stay that way, too.”

  “But it needn’t be that way,” said the Gracchan student, leaning forward. “The Gracchan Party can build a better future for America.”

  Ally rolled her eyes. “Oh, that sounds splendid. Are you going to break out a little red book now? Quotations of Chairman Wycliffe?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Senator Wycliffe and Senator Jones are great men.”

  “Sure,” said Ally, another retort on her lips, and she froze.

  A shadow writhed around the young student, dancing around his head. The echo of Wycliffe’s voice, strong and powerful and resonant, rang through Ally’s head for an instant. She jerked back into her booth, revulsion spreading through her.

  A puzzled look came over the student’s face. “What is it?”

  “Just go away,” whispered Ally. The student hesitated. “Go away! Just leave me the hell alone!”

  The Gracchan student cringed, fearful of making a scene. He turned and hurried away. Ally sighed and pressed the heels of her hands into her temples. A sharp bolt of pain dug through her mind and then faded away. The dreams were bad enough. But if she was starting to see things in the daylight…

  Maybe she really was crazy.

  Or maybe she had a brain tumor.

  Or perhaps she was only hungry.

  “God. I really have to stop skipping meals.”

  She devoured the rest of her lunch. Ally wanted to go back to her room and close the door to keep out visions and Gracchan Party members. She pulled on her backpack, dumped her garbage, and hurried out, ignoring the press and babble of the crowd.

  The early September sun shone bright and clear over the sidewalk. Some of the trees had started to turn, a bit of red and orange threading into the green leaves. A bus stop rested on the corner of the intersection, the bench empty. Ally dropped onto the bench with a sigh. The bus wouldn’t come for another ten minutes at the earliest. So she opened her backpack and rummaged for her homework.

  “Pardon.”

  A gaunt man stood nearby, leaning on a steel-headed cane. He wore scuffed jeans and a ragged army camouflage jacket. A thick mane of gray-brown hair encircled his head, mixing with his bushy beard. The beard almost hid a scar running down his face, and dark eyes gleamed beneath his bristling eyebrows.

  For a moment Ally was sure she had seen him someplace before.

  “I don’t have any money,” said Ally.

  The man coughed out a laugh. “Money? I don’t want money.”

  “I don’t want to buy you supper, either.”

  The man gestured with his cane. “Actually, I just want to sit.”

  Ally blinked. “Oh…um, sure. Feel free.”

  The man settled besides her. “Damn me, but it’s good to get off that leg.”

  “You could have just sat,” said Ally.

  The man smiled. “It’s not polite. At least, not where I come from. And if an old corpse like me sits next to a beautiful young woman, well, I’m liable to get arrested.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Ally.

  “Why is that?” said the man.

  Ally grinned. “Because if you tried anything, you’d have to trade in that cane for a wheelchair.”

  The man cackled. “That I would. Tae kwon do, I assume. Or karate?”

  Ally blinked. “How did you know?”

  The man tapped his cane against the pavement. “Way you move. You can see it, if you know what to look for.”

  Ally frowned. “Do I know you? I could almost swear we’ve met before.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Do you remember me?”

  Ally thought about it. “No. I don’t think I do.”

  “Then we’ve never met before,” said the man. “You can call me Regent, if you want.”

  “Regent. Well, Mr. Regent, you can call me Ally.”

  Regent nodded. “Miss Ally, then. You did good, telling that Gracchan bastard to go to hell.”

  Ally closed her backpack. “You saw that?” Regent nodded. “You were following me?”

  Regent spread his hands, cane tucked between his knees. “I was following that little shit. Let me tell you something. The Gracchan Party’s a sham and Wycliffe’s a monster.”

  Ally swallowed. “I’ve…heard things to that effect.”

  Regent scowled. “They’re all true. Wycliffe is a murderer and a criminal of the worst sort. And he does business with worse people, people who make him look a mild-mannered nun. Let me give you some advice. Stay far, far away
from anything that has to do with him or the Gracchan Party.”

  Ally bit her lip. “I’ll…do that.” The half-mad intensity in his eyes frightened her. “I have to go.”

  Regent looked at the street. “But the bus isn’t here yet.”

  “I’ll walk,” said Ally. She really wanted to get to her dorm room and shut the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Regent.”

  She hurried down the sidewalk.

  ###

  Kyle Allard slid out of the coffeehouse’s doorway, his eyes on the young red-headed woman. He walked to the bench and sat besides Regent. “So. How did it go?”

  Regent snorted. “What do you think?”

  Allard craned his neck, watching the young woman as she crossed the street. “What do I think? Why didn’t you ever tell me that she was so hot?”

  Regent gave him a flat look.

  “I’m serious,” said Allard. “My God, Regent. She has a superb ass. You sure were right when you said she was special.” He winked. “And those legs. I wish to God she had been wearing shorts.” He grinned. “Or nothing at all…”

  “Allard,” said Regent.

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  Allard swallowed. They sat in silence for a while, watching the traffic roar up and down the street.

  “She didn’t remember me,” said Regent, adjusting his grip on the cane.

  Allard frowned. “What, you’ve met before?”

  Regent nodded. “Once, long ago, when she was still a child. I’m not surprised. We were both under a great deal of stress at the time.”

  A pair of young women in tank tops and shorts strolled past, cigarettes in hand. Allard turned himself around. “Hey!”

  The young women gave him amused glances. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Don’t smoke,” said Allard.

  “Are you the Surgeon General or something?”

  “I’m serious,” said Allard. “Those things…those things are extremely bad for you.”

  He knew that firsthand.

  “Everybody dies,” said one of the women, walking way.

  “Not everybody,” said Allard. “Sometimes you’ll wish you were dead.” They ignored him. Allard sighed, guilt flooding through him. “I am such scum.”

  Regent cackled.

  “What the hell’s so funny?”

  “Son, you’re an idiot.” Regent tapped his cane for emphasis. “But your heart’s in the right place. Usually.”

  “So this Ally Wester doesn’t remember you,” said Allard, wanting to change the subject. “Good thing or a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know. It’s damned strange, Allard. Alastarius Prophesied about Lithon. It’s Lithon that Marugon wants dead. Yet…there’s something special about Ally.”

  Allard grinned. “I’ll say.” Regent glared. “Sorry, sorry.”

  Regent’s hands clenched his cane’s handle. “Damned if I know what it is, son. But there’s something around her…like a fire trying to explode. But it’s locked away within her. Maybe that’s part of her memory loss.” He rapped his cane’s tip against the concrete. “Goddamn it, Allard. I don’t understand.”

  Allard lowered his voice. “Do you think Marugon is looking for her?” He swallowed. “After the incident with her door room and the…changelings.” The memory of chasing the ghastly changeling through the campus chilled him. And the guilt. The changelings only existed because of his mistakes.

  “I still think that was a very unlucky coincidence,” said Regent. “If Marugon knew she and Lithon lived, he wouldn’t send a changeling to kill her. He’d send a winged one. Or that old demon Goth-Mar-Dan. Or Marugon would come himself.” He shook his head. “It’s damned lucky we deleted her records when we did, though they’ve probably been restored by now. And damned lucky I was able to confuse that changeling.”

  Allard remembered Regent standing tall and strong beneath the dormitory, his cane lifted high, white light flaring around him. The changeling had cowered, terror in its red eyes, and fled. “I don’t think you told me the truth completely.”

  Regent lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “I think Marugon ruined you, not Wycliffe,” said Allard, his voice quiet. “I think you have some white magic. I think you’re from Marugon’s world, not from Earth.” He winced and waited for the explosion.

  Regent laughed. The older man reached out and tapped Allard’s temple. “You know, son, you’re an idiot, I’ve always said that, but sometimes, just sometimes…you amaze me. You’re right. I’m not from Earth. But I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

  Allard nodded. “For my own safety.”

  “Damn straight,” said Regent. “So. See if you can amaze me again. What do you think we should do now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Regent grunted. “Didn’t think so. We keep her safe, son, that’s what we do. We keep her and Lithon safe. And if Marugon is looking for her, we make sure he doesn’t find her.”

  Allard grinned. “Guardian angels. We should call ourselves guardian angels.”

  Regent snorted and climbed to his feet. “Don’t make me hit you.”

  Chapter 4 - A Demon In A Van

  Anno Domini 2012

  Arran stood on the corner and watched the traffic, the leg he had broken in the Desert of Scorpions aching.

  Two massive black roads, with eight lanes each, crossed before him. More of the glowing lights hung from posts over the road, cycling through red, yellow, and green. The flow of jeeps had increased as the sun had climbed higher in the sky, until a never-ending river of multi-colored jeeps sped past him. Did every last peasant on this world own a jeep?

  Across the street stood a small building beneath an enormous round sign. Rows of blocky metal racks waited in the building’s courtyard. Arran watched as jeeps pulled up to the racks. The drivers climbed out, detached a hose from the racks, and plugged it into the sides of their jeeps. Perhaps this place sold the fire water needed to power the jeeps?

  A red jeep shot past, music blaring from its back seat. He found the music of Earth bizarre, filled with screaming voices and thundering drums and stranger noises. And he had seen stranger things yet in his few hours walking.

  But he had yet to see anyone carrying a gun.

  A stone bench stood on the corner, beneath a blue sign marked with odd symbols. Arran paced to the bench, sat down, and tried to think. Where had Lord Marugon gotten the guns? Arran had known the guns came from Earth, but had never given it any more thought. Perhaps the rulers of the United States had sold Marugon his guns, or perhaps the local nobility of Cicero and Chicago. But that didn’t make any sense. Plainly the people of Chicago had a taboo against carrying weapons in public, or perhaps the rulers had forbidden the people from purchasing guns. But if that was true, why had they sold guns to Marugon? Or maybe some local merchants had sold guns to Marugon, without the permission of the rulers of the United States.

  And just how was he supposed to find Alastarius?

  Perhaps Arran should hunt down these gun-merchants, whoever they were, and kill them. They had sold Marugon guns. They had caused horror and torment and carnage on his world. They deserved death.

  No. Arran could do nothing yet. This world, this city, was a mystery to him. He did not know enough of its customs to make his way. Arran needed a guide.

  As he thought, a pair of young women stopped near his bench. Like many of the other women he had seen, they wore clothes that left their arms and most of their legs bare. They did not seem so different from the young women that had once populated the royal court of Carlisan. Except the women of Carlisan had worn more clothing, of course. An old man wearing a striped shirt stood near the women, followed by a boy in a red shirt and trousers of blue material. What were they waiting for?

  A large, boxy jeep pulled up to the bench, smoke belching from a pipe on its roof. It looked large enough to hold forty or fifty people. A pair of doors on the side of the jeep opened with a loud hiss. The people p
iled inside, putting coins into a machine near the drivers’ seat. The boy glanced at the bus, shrugged, and sat beside Arran on the bench. He produced a curious rectangle of glass and metal and began to press it, images flickering over the glass. The boxy jeep’s door hissed shut and it roared away with a cloud of smoke. Arran watched it go, intrigued.

  He turned his head. “Boy. My pardon, but could I ask a question of you?”

  The boy glanced up from his glass rectangle. “Yeah, sure.” He looked about eleven or twelve, sunburned with blue eyes. “Dude, nice cape. Are you supposed to be Batman or something?”

  Arran glanced at his cloak. It had acquired tears, threadbare patches, and even quite a few bullet holes. “It has seen better days, I’ll warrant.”

  “It’s only September 29th. Halloween’s not for another month.”

  “What is Halloween?” said Arran.

  The boy gave him a strange look. “You an immigrant or something?”

  “Yes,” said Arran. “I am.”

  “From where?”

  Arran thought it over. “Iraq.”

  “You don’t look Iraqi. There’s an Iraqi kid in my class, Abdul or something like that, and you don’t look like him.”

  “My family is from an obscure region of Iraq,” said Arran. This was not going well. “But I am new to Chicago. And I would like to ask you some questions, since I am unfamiliar with this city.”

  The boy nodded. “Okay. It’s not like I have anything better to do. The stupid bus is late, again.”

  “That jeep that pulled up to the curb a few minutes ago,” said Arran. “What was that?”

  The boy scowled. “Jeep? I didn’t see any jeep.”

  Arran tried to explain. “That large box-shaped jeep. The doors opened, people put coins into a machine, and then the jeep drove away.”

  “Oh! That’s not a jeep. You must really be from a foreign country if you didn’t know that. That was the bus.”

  “Bus.” Arran nodded. “What is a bus?”

  “It’s…you know, the bus. You get on, pay two dollars, and then ride the bus until you get where you want to go. Sometimes you have to get off and change buses. It’s a real pain. I wish was old enough to drive.”