The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  “Two words. John. Kerry. Now, the Illuminati are another thing. Began as a Bavarian social club dabbling in the occult in 1776. They managed to last eleven years before the Catholic Church banned them, and they went underground. They’ve picked up a few magical tricks–some of which you saw today–and they probably would be running the world by now if they weren’t so damn stupid.”

  “Seemed to me that they were doing fairly well up to the time I passed out.”

  “Please. If a hamster lived a couple of hundred years, he’d have learned enough to beat you.”

  “Hey!”

  Barnaby’s voice took on a soothing tone. “OK, I guess you could beat a hamster. If he wasn’t armed. Anyway, they were a Bavarian Social Club; do you really think they were the brightest guys in town? It would be like the Shriners running the world. They could never have brought that jet down, let alone woken Ouroboros the World Snake from his sleep to receive the sacrifice.”

  “So, that’s who the dragonish thing was that ate the airplane?”

  “Well, it was either him or Jormungandr, one of Loki’s children. It’s not critical which one it was, since they both tend to eat their own tails and have a tremendous amount of control over what’s allowed in or out of things–”

  “Like magic being allowed into the world?”

  “That and a lot more,” Barnaby said. “That’s why I don’t think the Illuminati are anything but foot soldiers. They just don’t have big enough dreams to pull this off.”

  Ace asked, “Give me an idea of the dreams you’re talking about.”

  “Ruling the universe and all that’s in it,” the computer responded. “Or perhaps just a VIP card at the MGM Grand in Vegas. It’s hard to tell, but I’m leaning more toward the former than the latter.”

  Steve began to slide into the passenger seat of the Mercedes when Ace said, “Hans wants you to wipe your feet.”

  It took Steve a second to remember the name of the Mercedes, and then he took a bandana from his back pocket and wiped the soles of his shoes. “OK?” he asked.

  The screen on the dashboard spelled out something in German. Steve looked down at Send Money.

  AUTOMOBILE PUPPIES

  Steve shook his head. “I’m fairly sure that’s not right.”

  MACHINE ANIMALS? SEDAN COMPANIONS? CAR PETS?

  “Ok, that makes sense. Hans, we’ll get you some interior carpets as soon as we find a Pep Boys.”

  The car, which had been idling steadily, immediately shut down, all the doors closed, and the interior locks snapped down.

  Steve said, “You don’t like Manny, Moe, and Jack? Have you ever seen what you can do with one of their matchbooks?”

  The headlights went dark.

  “OK, we’ll get you rugs the next time we pass a BMW dealer.”

  The door locks popped up, the engine started, the lights came on, and they got in and buckled up.

  “OK, I’ll bite. What can you do with a Pep Boys matchbook?” Ace asked.

  “I don’t suppose you have one?” Ace shook her head and Steve checked the glove box. “Damn this nonsmoking society. Well, it’s really a visual joke, but I’ll try to give you an idea. You know how the front had the three Peps standing in line. Well, you cut slits right along their beltlines and, without tearing it out, carefully bend a paper match and slip it through each slit.”

  Ace grinned. “Oh, yeah. It’s like the Land o’ Lakes butter gag.”

  Steve looked confused, so she continued. “Oh, it has to do with folding the box so that the Indian maiden’s exceptionally round and rosy knees appear instead of the box of butter she’s holding to her chest. There is some evidence that the founder intended it to work that way.”

  Barnaby commented in a solemn voice, “The world is in grave danger–”

  Steve interrupted. “–and what better way to go out than this? Have you ever seen the boner that the priest in The Little Mermaid gets?”

  Ace instantly responded, “Or the fact that the Pentagon and the World Trade Towers both appear on fire if you fold a twenty- dollar bill just right. Clear proof of predestination, if you ask me.”

  Barnaby began to talk, but Steve cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. I know, the dragonking and the end of the universe and all that. We’ll deal with it, but I’d like to get something to eat first. Is the world going to end before we can catch a burger?”

  “Well, no.”

  “OK, then.” Steve got in. “Where is there an Ollie’s Trolley?” Barnaby said. “Checking... No. I can’t find anything.”

  “What? No ‘24 ’erbs and spices’? No ‘It don’t need ketchup. It don’t need nuttin’”? “No.”

  “Well, if you’ve got all those petabytes thinking filthy thoughts, and your vacuum cleaners are hoovering up all the data in the world, and you can’t find an Ollie’s, I think we really are doomed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It took a while, but Send Money eventually established that the only Ollie’s in the Metro DC area was downtown, so they ended up in the little time-warp town of Greenbelt at the New Deal Deli. The enormous 1930s-style sandwiches almost made up for the lack of 24 herbs and spices.

  Steve had always liked the homegrown socialist aspect of Greenbelt. While the rest of the world grew increasingly conservative, people here thought of themselves as still working together with the government to cut roads, lay railroad tracks, beat fascism, and build cute little towns you could walk around.

  Or at least, it felt that way if you kept your visits short...

  Finally, having wrapped himself around a large amount of pastrami, he was content to look out the window at the rounded corners and grooves of genuine Art Deco. Slowly, he became aware of the people who were parking their cars, coming out of the Co-op grocery store, or jogging, walking, and biking along the street.

  They had changed. They were taller and thinner–even the people who were clearly chunky had a sort of ethereal silhouette; somehow, Steve would think of them as thin even when they clearly weren’t. Their fingers were long and elegantly tapered. Even the men seemed to all be wearing European loafers and suits cut in the slimmer European styles.

  “Jeez. Look at that guy’s ears,” Ace commented.

  The waiter who had just taken the check did indeed have long, pointed ears. The tips actually peeked out of his bushy hair. Up at the counter, two men had hair down to their belts–one even had it elaborately braided with colored ribbons. When a man walked by outside with leather boots so tall they topped his knees, Steve finally got it.

  “They’re elves.”

  Ace looked around and nodded her head. “I think you’re right. Even gay guys couldn’t get away with those boots. They look like characters from one of those Women Who Love Vampires and the Werewolves Who Love Them books that Anita Blake writes.”

  Steve’s cell phone vibrated and he instantly ripped it off his belt, swearing under his breath. This time, however, it didn’t scorch his hand.

  “Thanks for not using your psychic flamethrower.” A cartoon of a top hat being tipped appeared.

  “Don’t get cocky,” Steve warned. “Toast me again and you’ll be melted down into hippie jewelry.” Ace moved her hand just slightly and Steve said, “Don’t you dare threaten me. This fool phone needs to learn some manners. I’ll bet he got his blowtorch- to-the-nuts wake-up method from the same morons who gave us waterboarding.”

  Ace relaxed as much as she ever did. Steve put the phone on the table and said, “That you, Barnaby?”

  The slightly accented voice of the leader of the Illuminati answered. “No, it is certainly not some fool named ‘Barnaby’.”

  “Hey, Wisenheimer,” Steve said cheerfully. “How’s your hand? No wait, the last time I saw it, Carlos was carrying it with him in case he needed a snack.”

  The voice dropped into what could only be described as a hiss. “If you think you defeated me, you would be making a serious and almost certainly fatal error, Mr. Rowan. Your clumsy use of Power was sim
ply a fluke...an event that no one would have predicted.”

  Ace asked quietly. “What about the other six little wizards? They weren’t all that tough. Of course, most of their efforts were devoted to trying to keep up with you as you ran down the street screaming and squealing. No one looks at their best in that situation.”

  “Ah, Ms. Morningstar. Enjoy your time as Ace of Swords. It will be brief.”

  “Why?” Ace asked innocently. “It seems to me that I just have to learn enough magic to beat that limp-wristed hand trick you guys used to toss my gear all over the room. How’s your mojo hold up against a full clip of 9 mm?”

  “I’ll have a new hand in a few days and we’ll try it out.”

  The smartphone began to vibrate in an SOS pattern. Steve looked at the screen and read

  HE STUCK MY SIGNAL

  Steve made a rolling motion so that Ace would keep Weishaupt talking. She nodded and said, “I hope you aren’t asking me for a date, because I’ve got to tell you; tall, dark, and one- handed just isn’t my type.”

  HE HAS PIQUED MY SIGNAL HAS POSITION.

  SOMETHING BAD COMING. OUT FREAKING NOW!

  Steve stood up, threw a couple of twenties on the table, tossed Ace the phone, and headed out the door. Ace was right on his heels–her slanging contest with the Bavarian magician continuing without missing a beat. They crossed the small central courtyard, around the edge of the opposite building, and quick walked down to the end of the block.

  When they stopped, Steve noticed that Weishaupt had stopped talking, so he took the phone back and asked, “Hey, buddy. Everything OK? You seem kind of quiet.”

  There was the scratching sound of Weishaupt’s hand uncovering the mouthpiece. “Uh. No. Everything will be just fine.”

  “‘Will be’?” asked Steve. “Why not just enjoy the way things are?”

  The phone started to vibrate and heat up. Steve juggled the unit from hand to hand, but it only became slightly warm. On the screen, it said.

  CURRENTLY PULL OUT SIM CARD!

  Steve dug in his pockets, found a paperclip, and poked out the card. He said to Ace. “You know, he’s getting much easier to understand–Hey, what the hell!”

  Ace had grabbed a fistful of Steve’s hair and was pulling him at a fast run further down the block. “They’ve pinpointed our location. Now run, dumbass!”

  The pain was excruciating, but Steve found he could keep it manageable so long as he kept up with Ace.

  “Of course,” he thought. “Keeping up with a confirmed fitness freak isn’t something I can do for very long. Then I’ll have a tonsure like a medieval monk. Or even worse, like Al Gore.”

  A brilliantly yellow light was casting moving shadows on the cars parked to his left. His feet actually left the ground as Ace threw him to the pavement behind a car and landed squarely on top of him, knocking all the breath out of his lungs. Before he could even try to breathe, he was blinded by a crash of yellow light and his entire body was crushed into a tiny ball for a fraction of a second. He could feel the concussion waves slamming into his body, but everything was silent.

  Steve felt Ace move and he started to raise his head, but Ace slammed it right back to the asphalt and tucked her own head into his neck. For an instant, he thought that this might be pleasant in another context.

  Clearly, this was not that other context, as the front wheels of the car in front of them began to lift up and then the entire car rotated up, pivoted on the rear bumper about an inch from Steve’s ground-level viewpoint, and disappeared from sight. He could still feel the asphalt shake and assumed that if he could hear anything at all, it would be pretty noisy. An enormous cloud of dust swept over them and instantly, Steve flashed on memories of the panicked office workers on 9/11.

  Except the dust was bright yellow.

  He felt the death-grip pressure of Ace’s hand begin to loosen. She looked up and, when she didn’t instantly drop back down, Steve raised his head as well.

  The corner of the building where they had been standing was smashed. Steve wondered if “looked as if a bomb had hit it” would really be the correct phrase for this, since while the wall was indeed blasted, many of the bricks had also melted in long yellow streams that looked like candle wax. A semisolid ball of coruscating light was stuck halfway into the wall like a Civil War cannonball.

  Well, if you squinted and ignored the pulsing rainbow of bright lights it was emitting, it might look like a cannonball.

  A group of volunteer firemen came racing around the corner. Steve couldn’t help noticing that they seemed to be almost flowing along the ground with their long hair flying out behind them. This was definitely not how he remembered volunteer firemen running– if they could run at all.

  The firemen stopped in front of the fireball, which, from the amount of yellow melted brick, was working its way through the wall. They joined hands in a circle, walked firmly inwards until each man’s hands pointed straight up, and then backed away. They did this three times with no apparent effect. On the third movement out, a fountain of purple–something–burst out as if it was being pumped out of the earth.

  The firemen on the side closest to the “burning bomb” bent and the jet of purple...whatever...passed over their heads and struck the golden ball. There was an enormous cloud of...Steve finally got tired of trying to work out the proper names for things–it looked a little bit like steam; so steam it was. This was a multicolored cloud of steam, but the yellow color was still dominant.

  The firemen drew in and pumped up purple liquid four more times before the last vestige of yellow was gone. Then they broke the circle; some fell or sat, and they all looked exhausted.

  “Nine of cups.”

  Steve looked around and then realized it was Barnaby on the cell phone again. The computer continued, “I thought that Democrats and other liberals would end up Cups–or elves, if you prefer. Greenbelt is a Democratic stronghold, so there has been a more pronounced change here than in other communities. I must say that they do have some elves with pretty severe beer bellies, but I suppose that will work out in time.”

  “What’s the purple stuff?” Steve asked. “While you’re at it, explain the yellow thing and how you’re talking on a phone with no SIM card. In order, so I can keep it straight.”

  “Let’s see. According to the Thoth Deck, it’s living water under the influence of Jupiter; in the classic Rider deck, it’s abundance but the fat guy in the middle drank it all; and in astrology it’s connected to Pisces, the fish; and finally, the Golden Dawn Qabbalists say it’s Yesod, the ninth sphere of the universe, and positioned in Briah, the watery world.”

  “So, it’s water,” Steve said. “Figures that firemen would bring water. Could we get the explanation of the yellow with less than three references to moronic 18th century cults?”

  “OK, we’ll do it your way,” Barnaby said stiffly. “That was a bomb. The Illuminati threw it. They wanted to kill you. Simple enough?”

  “Yes. Damn near perfect,” Steve said. “Now the phone.”

  “They found you through Send Money’s SIM ID bouncing off the cell towers, so he performed a jailbreak hack on himself.”

  “Sounds painful,” Steve mused. “If he doesn’t have a SIM card, how does he access a network?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  Steve smiled happily, stood shakily, and leaned back against the two cars that were neatly stacked behind him. “Hot damn, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. It’s not even a weekend and I’ve got free calls.”

  “I agree.” Ace leaned against the car next to him. “If you think about it, we won’t get a bill of any kind. However, the fact that Weishaupt and his buddies think we’re dead is running a strong second place.”

  With a start, Steve saw that blood was seeping through Ace’s white T-shirt low on the left side. “What the hell happened?” he said.

  “This? I think it was ketchup from lunch,” she said. When he gave her a disbelieving look, she confessed. “OK
, I took a piece of shrapnel when I was trying to save your sorry-ass life, if you must know. Don’t get all worked up over it. If I’d known it was headed our way, I’d have moved and let it hit you.”

  “Use the phone camera to show it to me,” Barnaby said. Ace shot Steve a sharp look. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Honest, I’m only concerned for your health,” Steve swore. “The sight of your unbelievably beautiful unclothed body is completely beside the point. Now pull up your shirt.”

  Low on her right, there was a burned circle with a yellow light gleaming dimly in the center. Blood was seeping steadily out of the wound. Steve kept his eyes on the phone’s screen but couldn’t quite help noticing the tight muscles swelling down to her hip–

  “Stop it!” Ace growled.

  “Stop what?” Steve said innocently.

  “Promise me you’ll never play poker. Your entire face is a tell.”

  “If you two will stop bickering for a second,” Barnaby cut in, “I’ve checked the files over at the OTN section and you’ve got a Class Two slash 14 Wound: Numinous or Mystical. It says…well, when you add it all up, the instructions for wound care boil down to ‘try not to get one.’”

  “That’s useful.” Ace started to pull her shirt down, but Steve pulled a bandana from his back pocket and handed it to her. She looked at it suspiciously and sniffed it.

  “It’s clean,” he said. “Fresh from the washer.”

  They kludged a dressing with the bandana and Steve’s belt. When the buckle pulled well past the last hole, she looked at his waistline with a hint of disdain.

  He said. “Don’t be silly. Men aren’t supposed to have waists. How did you ever fool the SEALs?”

  “Loose shirts and magic.” She responded. “Along with 300 sit-ups a day.”

  “And you say this is something you wanted to do?” Steve asked absently as he concentrated and burned a new hole in the belt with a golden ray.

  “Hey!” Ace said as the thin ray sped past her waist. “Not so goddamn close!”

  “Relax. I’m getting better every time I try this.”