The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  She paused to pull a star that was stuck in bone and then continued. “So, since you aren’t going to collect that next paycheck, how about telling me who hired you?”

  “No way, Chief.” A look of fear passed across the broad, red face. “I appreciate you being gracious and all, but being dead isn’t even going to slow those guys down if they find out I went all loose-lipped in the end. I mean, they pay well but they are extremely rigorous about security.”

  “So, we’re not talking about the Illuminati?”

  Stengel broke into a surprised laugh that turned into violent coughing and a lot of blood. Ace gently turned his head so he wouldn’t choke. When he could speak again, he said, “The Illuminati? Hell, no. There isn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to get me to work for those fools.”

  His breathing became more labored and Ace moved off his chest and knelt beside him to take back the last few weapons. After a moment, he continued. “Hey Chief. I’ve got a…friend over in Georgetown.”

  “I’d be honored to carry a message for you, Captain,” Ace said.

  “Thanks.” He broke off into another, longer spasm of coughing. When he finally caught his breath, Ace pulled a flask of water from somewhere, gave him a drink, and moistened the napkin to clean some of the blue flecks of blood and lung off his lips. He nodded his thanks. “Look, I don’t owe the Illuminati anything. Their headquarters is up…” His voice faltered.

  “Up at Meridian Hill Park, I know,” Ace said.

  Stengel nodded and then struggled to continue. “Two things. One is…statue of Buchanan. Crappy president. It’s his only statue. But that’s not…”

  Ace folded the napkin and put the cleanest side on his forehead. “Shhh. We’ll find it.”

  “No.” The monster just breathed for a moment, gathering his strength. “No. The key is the comedy…”

  He couldn’t continue.

  Ace put a finger on his lips. “Stop. You have a message for someone. That’s more important. Tell me that.”

  She had to put her ear next to his lips and Steve couldn’t make out anything that was said. After a long couple of minutes, Ace leaned back, looked the monster in the eyes, and nodded. “Don’t worry, Captain. I promise I’ll deliver that message personally.”

  Stengel’s entire body convulsed and slumped. After a second, Ace reached up and gently closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Police sirens were approaching from both up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. Steve reflected that, as much as it might seem as if the entire world had transformed into a fairy tale overnight, the reality was that most of Washington was simply business as usual. In the real world, a brawl that destroyed a restaurant was soon followed by a large number of police. Apparently, that hadn’t changed.

  “If I might suggest, the back door would be better,” Barnaby said from the smartphone. “I’d do something to confuse their communications, but every cop in DC knows how to get to the Tune Inn.”

  “What have the police turned into in this hellish world?” Steve wondered. “Robocops?”

  Barnaby’s voice took on a pedantic tone. “The changes depend on too many things to be universal and predictable. Each policeman’s individual personality, ethics, and politics–all these play into what they become. In fact, so many are solid and determined souls with a strong sense of mission, I can imagine a number of them are simply adapting to a new way of doing business and going on much as they did before.”

  “Tell you what. If you two continue to discuss this, you’ll definitely have the opportunity to find out the answer,” Ace spoke over her shoulder as she went out the back door. “I’m willing to leave the nature of the average street cop to the imagination.”

  Steve followed her out the door. “Why would you worry about the police? You’re a SEAL, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Haven’t you ever thought about what the military police do?” They turned right and headed down C Street, not running but moving quickly. “They arrest people like me. Think about that.”

  Behind them, the sirens dopplered to a stop. He could hear barked orders, shouts of “Clear,” and a number of very loud repetitions of “What the hell?”

  There was a short period of silence and then a howl echoed from the Tune Inn. It was soon followed by a second and a third. All three sounds turned first into excited yelps and then into the steady baying of hounds following a scent trail.

  Three uniformed figures came out of the gas station on the corner of Pennsylvania and C Streets, running faster than he would have expected from anyone but rookies just out of the Academy. It wasn’t until they were less than a half block behind that he could make out their elongated canine muzzles, double-jointed legs, and sharp-pointed ears.

  “And then there would be the policemen who find that magic is a way to increase their natural speed, ferocity, and aptitude for pursuit.” Barnaby said dryly.

  Ace and Steve had only covered a single block and it was clear that they were going to be surrounded within the next twenty or thirty yards. Since they weren’t going to get away, they stopped and turned to face the…

  “What are they called?” Steve wondered. “A squad? A pack?”

  “I don’t really care,” Ace said. “We have a problem.”

  “Clearly,” Steve said, bent over in a vain attempt to catch his breath.

  “No,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to fight them. I don’t hurt cops and I sure as hell won’t fight police dogs.”

  “Are you sure they aren’t wolves?” Steve asked hopefully. “Yes, I’m sure. They aren’t and I won’t.”

  Steve straightened up. “So, I take it the plan is to get picked up and waste time trying to explain the inexplicable. Won’t that get in the way of saving the world or something?”

  “No, y’all really don’t have time ta visit with these folks, and you sure ain’t gonna beat them in a race. I think all three of ‘em could blow out the lamp and be in bed before it gets dark.” Steve turned to see that Coyote was standing behind them in a space he would have sworn was empty a second ago.

  The demigod raised his voice and addressed the three policemen. “Hey, guys. Why don’t you slow down and let’s have a chat–dog to dog, as it were.”

  At first, it didn’t appear that Coyote’s words were even going to slow the three officers down. Then they skidded to a stop about a yard away and stared over Steve’s left shoulder with varying expressions of alarm, apprehension, and amazement. Steve was not all that surprised when he turned again and saw the enormous cadejo trotting around the corner from 4th Street to stand behind them.

  “I guess I should have said ‘dog to dog to dog-monster.’” Coyote chuckled. “Hey, Carlos, why don’t you show Ace and Steve what you’ve learned? It might help that cynocephalus on the left from making a real regrettable error with that service revolver.”

  “The cyno-what?” Steve asked, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Carlos shaking himself, a flapping racket that was like the noise a Labrador’s ears make when he shakes his head.

  Except this would have been a giant Labrador with about forty ears. It was truly deafening and came accompanied by a cloud of dust and grit blown up off the road.

  Steve was forced to squint to keep flying debris out of his eyes but, when the sudden and extremely local tornado stopped, a young man with Hispanic features and elaborate colored tattoos that completely covered his torso stood behind them. He was wearing boots and jeans, probably borrowed from Coyote, and set about fastening the final pearl snaps on a western shirt. Steve wanted to ask how he managed to keep his clothes on through all those gyrations, but decided there would probably be time for that later.

  “There we go. OK, let’s do the introductions. I’m known as Hosteen to my friends–among whom I count these two here,” Coyote said, indicating Ace and Steve. “And this is Carlos Cortada, a very nice young man who just recently has found that he is a cadejo–which, as I’m sure y’all know, is the legendary hoofed
dog of the Salvadorian volcanoes.”

  The faces of the three officers clearly indicated they had no clue what Coyote was talking about.

  “Now, I’m not quite sure what to call you guys. I mean, you are police, but saying ‘Hi, police’ is somewhat rude, and you’re not jackals, although there’s clearly a family resemblance to Anubis.”

  Coyote walked around the three officers and examined them from all sides—an activity that made them noticeably nervous. Finally, he snapped his fingers in triumph.

  “I got it, you’re cynocephali, which is just a fancy way of saying, ‘dog-headed.’ Back in the Middle Ages, your people had a damn good reputation as warriors. As a matter of fact, Saint Christopher was one. But ‘Hi Officer Cynocephali’ is damn near impossible to anyone to say, so why don’t y’all lose the extra teeth and just tell us your names?”

  The three looked at each other and then, with what appeared to be a bit of effort, morphed back into their human bodies. The one on the left, a tall black man who was clearly the oldest, stepped forward. “I’m Officer Mike Chubb, and these are Officers Stacy Grafton and Lyle Bautista. Mr. Hosteen, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but we need to take these two in. We believe they were involved in an incident up at the Tune Inn that practically knocked the whole place down.”

  “Well, unless the Inn has greatly changed from my last visit, knocking it down wouldn’t have taken too much effort,” Coyote said.

  “Yes, sir, that is quite possibly accurate,” Chubb continued. “But there are two enormous red-skinned giants of some sort in there who are quite definitely deceased–‘butchered’ might be a better word.”

  Grafton, a young blonde woman with her hair wound into a tight bun, pointed at Ace. “From the amount of blood on your clothes –and I’ll accept that the red is yours, but there is a hell of a lot of that blue kind sprayed all over the Tune Inn–I’d say you are at the very least material witnesses if not the actual perpetrators.”

  “So, what are you going to charge them with?” Coyote asked. “First-degree monster slaughter? I’m not sure that’s a crime. Not yet, at any rate. Anyway, as I said, these two are old friends of mine, Steve Rowan and Ace Morningstar and in my various roles as Magus and Lead Trail Dog, I’m gonna to have to insist that you let them go on their way.”

  A cough came from the smart phone clipped to Steve’s belt. Coyote nodded, “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. That cell phone over there contains the ghost of a young Chinese factory worker we call Send Money, and the voice of Barnaby, who is one of the smarter computers housed in the Puzzle Factory out at Fort Meade.

  “Nice to meet you,” Barnaby said.

  Chubb looked at his fellow patrolmen for confirmation and then shook his head. “This is all very interesting, but we’ve still got to bring these two back and hold them for questioning.”

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Barnaby said. “Let’s see. You’re Michael Chubb, born in Upper Marlboro in 1985. Right? You entered the police academy straight out of college and… Hey, would you look at that. Your answers on the entrance exam are exactly the same as those of Audrey Chalmers–who, I believe, was sitting next to you. Um. Then there is Mr. Bautista… Wow, I have to congratulate you, sir. How do you manage two families on a policeman’s salary? Oh, wait. Oh, now I see. Ingenious, Mr. Bautista. Very ingenious for such a young man. Now, Ms. Grafton–”

  “Stop,” the young woman broke in. “You don’t need to go any further. Just stop.”

  All three officers looked as if they might throw up at any moment. Coyote threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  Literally howled.

  When he had managed to bring his mirth to an occasional chuckle, he said, “Oh, man, if you could see your faces!” After wiping his eyes on a bandana he pulled from a back pocket, he continued. “Listen; let me make this real simple. These are Good Guys, and those cherry-colored folks on the floor of the Tune Inn were working for the Bad Guys. That’s just a fact. Another fact is that these two didn’t start the fight, although with the Ace of Swords in full battle mode and the Fool starting to pick up a thing or two, they surely finished it. Finally, in the new way of things, we’re all on the same side. Everyone has things they’d like to keep secret, and Barnaby, you make sure everything you find stays secret, OK?

  “Absolutely. If it’s not about national security, it’s none of my business.”

  Coyote continued. “Now, you guys are going to end up howling at the same damn moon as Carlos here. Mainly because he’s the Ten of Pentacles, which is honesty, loyalty, community, and all that good stuff.”

  Chubb had finally recovered enough to ask, “What is all this bullshit about Aces and Tens?”

  “You mean that nice Police Chief of yours hasn’t issued orders for mandatory tarot training?” Coyote seemed disappointed. “I’ll talk to her about it. Trust me, without that, you will have no idea what’s going on in Magic City these days.”

  Steve said quietly, “You’ll have damn little idea what’s going on regardless.”

  Ace elbowed him in the ribs.

  “The important thing to remember is that magic is here and it’s going to change most people,” Coyote continued. “Now, it generally makes you more of what you already were. You three were pretty good cops; I can tell from how magic gave you faster legs, quicker reflexes, better noses–all things that’ll help in your job.”

  Coyote paused. “Speaking of noses, I’d advise just going without perfume or aftershave. You’re fine, ma’am, but the two of you men have to be getting some terrible headaches. Officer Chubb, I’d suggest kicking your Old Spice habit, and as for you, young man”–he pointed at Bautista–“no one over the age of twelve should be wearing Axe, whether they got magic powers or not.”

  Stacy Grafton gave a snort of laughter and said, “I told you, Lyle. That crap should have an adult-proof cap.” The young Hispanic man scowled.

  Coyote smiled. “OK, that’s just one of the little things you need to learn. Magic don’t care which side of the law you’re on, so you’re going to run into some bad actors with new abilities. From time to time, the best you can do just isn’t going to be enough, and you’ll be looking for some help. Now, Ace and Steve don’t mind being asked to bash a bad guy every once in a while. Right?’

  Steve just looked at Coyote and wondered if he’d gone completely insane. Ace nodded confidently and said, “Of course. I’m not prevented by Posse Comitatus anymore, so I’d be glad to lend a hand.”

  Stacey Grafton asked, “You’re military?”

  “Sure. Master Chief Petty Officer–DEVGRU.” Ace paused. “Or at least I was until the world changed.”

  Bautista said skeptically, “They don’t allow women on the SEAL teams.”

  “You are correct, sir. They don’t,” Ace said shortly.

  After a moment of concentrated staring, Coyote broke in. “As far as that goes, you can listen to a long story I doubt you’ll believe, or you can just go by the fact that Ace here took down the big guy at the Tune Inn. Goodness knows it sure wasn’t Steve.”

  Steve nodded in sincere agreement.

  Chubb asked, “How will we get in touch with you? You know, in case the captain wants to talk about those red guys or something.”

  Send Money began to play Carly Rae Jepsen’s Call Me Maybe. The officers jumped.

  “Nothing to worry about. That’s just the kid who’s stuck inside the phone,” Steve explained. “I think he’s saying that he’s so thoroughly hacked the system that you just need to ask for him. What’s your real name, again? ‘Fa Qian’?”

  The phone played a sound effect of a loud raspberry and then launched into Warren Zevon’s Lawyers, Guns, and Money.

  Coyote smiled. “There you go. If the shit has hit the fan, just ask your phone to send lawyers, guns, and money. Simple enough. Now, I’ve got a lunch date with a roadkill down on Rock Creek Drive, but I believe our business here is done. That right?”

  The three policemen still l
ooked dubious but nodded in agreement.

  Coyote took Steve and Ace by the arms and began to walk up Second Street. “Come on, Carlos. We’ll chat a bit while we walk back to their place.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “First, as you can see, my friend Carlos no longer has to go around as a big sheepdog with horseshoes on–at least not all the time,” Coyote said as they walked north under the shade of the tulip poplars that lined Second Street. “It took a bit of basic instruction on my part and a lot of practice on his part, but he did it.”

  He glanced at Carlos with a grin. “We won’t talk about the times he managed to turn himself into everything from a Lincoln Continental to a luna moth.”

  Carlos gave him a sour look.

  “Because all of that is in the past, Carlos is fit to rejoin society–”

  “–and date real women again,” Carlos added.

  “Indeed,” Coyote said. “You weren’t very interested in the females we had available?”

  “They were all a bunch of bitches.” Steve and Ace both groaned.

  “Sadly, we simply had to go to that joke at some point, so I’m glad we got it out of the way early.” Coyote’s toothy grin was proof that he wasn’t sad at all. “Anyway, Carlos wanted to get back to city life, so I’ve brought him along to hang with you guys for a while.”

  “The hell he is,” Steve said. “He tried to kill me the last time we met.”

  “Not true.” Carlos answered this time. “I was having both physical and managerial crises and wasn’t capable of killing you, even if I wanted to.”

  Ace nodded in agreement.

  Steve still wasn’t convinced. “Well, did you want to?” Carlos just showed a lot of teeth in a broad smile.

  Coyote laughed and said, “I think that’s your answer right there, hoss. If he’d wanted you dead, you’d probably be dead.”

  Carlos’s face became sober. “The other consideration is that there isn’t a retirement plan for primeras palabras–or for OGs from any gang, really.”