The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  He sank deeper into the darkness and felt it smear and tarnish something deep inside. He Realized that it was his soul, and although it was only a bit smudged, he could see how quickly it was blackening.

  He could feel his emotions hardening, things like music, joy, and beauty seeming to draw away from him in revulsion.

  Well, if the cost of defeating a monster was to become a monster, that’s what it was. Steve accepted the shadow inside himself and reached out into the smashed building in front of him.

  He began to find the dead as soon as his perceptions crossed the threshold–security guards smashed to the floor, a young woman screaming as she was crushed in an slowly-collapsing elevator, two twisted bodies of men with sledgehammers in their hands–custodians who had tried to stop the statue, only to be kicked aside.

  Steve Pulled at them, Called on their blood and–no matter how hard he wanted to reject the fact–Demanded their souls. Slowly, agonizingly, the remnants of people–the brave and the terrified, the young and the old–began to move toward him.

  He continued to search until he had what seemed to be bright cords connecting him to dozens of bodies; until he simply couldn’t bear finding another crushed scrap of a person who’d awoken to the sun this morning with no expectation of how dark it would be by evening.

  Steve kept one hand firmly in place over his eyes. He knew somehow that this had to be done in darkness; it was a lonely ritual where he pulled all the pain inside, and held it until he felt his skin would burst with the pressure.

  Then he began to braid all the love, the loss, the hopes, the bravery, and the simple joys of a day like any other. The pain, fear, and sorrow he kept to himself, forcing it down until it felt like a thousand knives ripping into the deepest part of him.

  A golden string began to emerge from his chest. Yes, damn it, it was coming from his heart. He’d have bet anything that he didn’t have a heart, at least not in the sense of an emotional and spiritual center.

  Man, that pissed him off.

  Steve forced himself to Believe in a soul and a heart and the essence of human virtue, putting all his doubts and cynicism aside. Taking the thread, he held it and focused into it all the raw power of innocent blood that he could feel tingling through his body.

  It wasn’t like the times he’d used his own blood; it was more powerful, more ecstatic, and far more dangerous. The attraction of this terrible power was digging into him like the long years he’d lost in heroin dreams.

  He’d have to hit a meeting tomorrow and begin the long fight back to sobriety, but today, he needed every bit of strength, and yes, he was willing to damn himself to get it.

  He raised Send Money and pressed him into his chest. He could feel the kid’s terrible fear and tried to feed the slow burn of determination that would give the young ghost enough willpower to overcome it. The light was facing out and he rotated his entire body, his mind seeking out the enormous mass of mingled greatness and evil that had to be Lincoln.

  The power of the dead souls burned as it left him and he could feel it fill the young Chinese factory worker with agony. Fa Qian began to pray to his ancestors, and Steve could feel as hundreds, thousands of misty souls slowly appeared, each taking up a tiny piece of the terrible burden.

  Suddenly, Steve Knew that all the power inside him was exhausted and the brave soul caught in the tiny glass and metal machine couldn’t take any more.

  Steve opened his eyes and screamed, “OK, Fa Qian. Light that motherfucker up!”

  It was as if all the flashbulbs and searchlights, and flash bangs in the world went off at once as a searing cone of pure white light bloomed from the tiny phone. Almost thirty yards away, the slowly moving statue instantly went rigid in the act of stepping forward and down off the curb as it headed for the other glass high rise.

  For a moment, Steve thought it might start walking again. Thought that they had failed.

  Then he heard booming and the sound of crumbling boulders–it was as if a mine collapse was happening deep inside the eidolon. Cracks appeared with explosive showers of pulverized stone, the front leg broke at the knee, a fissure circled the other ankle, and while the enormous leg kept moving, the foot stayed behind.

  Slowly, ponderously, the statue tilted forward and seemed to hang for a second. Then with an intense crack, it broke at the waist and shattered into an enormous mound of dust and stones.

  Steve stared at the cell phone. “Nice job. You got any more of that?”

  The words were light gray on black, just barely visible.

  Hell no.

  Did we kill the bastard?

  “I think so,” Steve said. “I’d say Lincoln has gone all to pieces.”

  GOOD.

  IF YOU DO THAT AGAIN

  I COMING OUT OF THIS PHONE

  AND THE LIVING CRAP BEATING OUT OF YOU.

  “Sounds fair.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “You know, I always thought this was the ugliest building I’d ever seen,” Steve said as they all stood in a group about a block away and watched the steel and glass skyscraper finally implode into a gargantuan pile of broken glass, metal, and concrete. Police and rescue teams were working on the crowd.

  “Did everyone get out?” he asked.

  “No, we lost quite a few on the lower levels as the big guy came through but I have a feeling you already knew that.”

  Ace shot a sharp glance at Steve, which he carefully ignored. He could still feel the dark and delicious pain roiling through him and knew Ace would never understand what he’d had to do.

  It was something only rock-bottom addicts could understand because they knew how to come back when there was no way back. How to survive when every day meant another battle with a gnawing hunger that never faded, never could be cured. He also knew that every time he touched this blackness in the future, there would be an even chance that he’d never make his way back.

  For the first time, he thought he understood why something or, Heaven help me, Some One, had chosen him to be the Last American Wizard.

  Ace continued. “The number of casualties was acceptably low–almost none on the upper floors, in fact. Yeah, there were the wimps who complained about being chucked out of a window and then tossed from one Sword to another until they reached Carlos and Pike down on the ground, but some people are just never happy about anything. We had a few heart attacks and one guy committed suicide on the top floor. Terrible fear of heights, apparently.”

  She looked at the wreckage for a moment and then continued. “We almost lost a lot of people in the television station. The idiots wouldn’t leave the control room. There was a fat senior producer in suspenders who kept yelling at me and saying that they never evacuated for fire alarms and they weren’t going to leave now.” She spun a knife in her hand and made it disappear. “I really don’t think he believed I was serious until I stuck a knife in his ass and told the others to toss him out the window. He was a bit annoyed, but his technical folks seemed to enjoy it immensely.”

  Ace pulled the sword from her belt. “I guess it’s time to return what I borrowed.”

  She spoke to the weapon with polite gravity. “You have been of great assistance but I don’t require you any longer.” She threw it straight up into the air, and as it shot off to the northeast, she yelled, “Tell Joan I said ‘thank you.’”

  Steve stood next to her as they watched it disappear from sight. “I do have a question,” he said. “Well, a lot of questions as usual, but one in particular.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “If explosives have been rendered useless by magic, how did you rig the one that took off Abe’s head?”

  “Oh,” Ace said with a short laugh. “All of this magic stuff seems to be about how much you believe in what you are. The more you believe you’re powerful, the more powerful you become. I spent quite a lot of my spare time telling the C-4 in that shaped charge that it was the very best explosive in the whole world and that I loved it very much.” She s
miled. “He did good for his mom, don’t you think?”

  “Funny. I never think of you as a maternal figure,” Steve said. “Hell, every noncom plays mom for the enlisted.” She turned and began walking slowly toward Key Bridge and the lights of Georgetown. “Male or female, we take a bunch of young kids and, with a bit of tough love, convince them that they’re invincible. After a couple months of that, they can do practically anything.”

  After a silence, she said, “Hurts when they die.”

  There was another gap in the conversation, and then Ace said with just a little too much casual indifference, “So, Send Money’s little flashlight worked pretty well.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the crowd under the emergency lights. “Barnaby’s best guess is that it sucked all the magic right out of everything it shone on. Did a job on Abe.”

  “So, you just had to push the button and blammo, right?”

  Steve didn’t answer for a moment and then said, “Basically.”

  He could tell that Ace was looking intensely at his face, but he continued to be fascinated by the ambulances and cops milling around under the emergency lights.

  “You know that I don’t believe word one of that bullshit, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Just so we’re clear.” Ace hitched her climbing pack up to a more comfortable position on her shoulders. “Remember that I’m always around if you find yourself stuck in a moral quandary and require a swift kick in the ass, OK?”

  “Of course.” He smiled for a second. “What else are friends for?”

  “Who said anything about ‘friends’?” She spun on her heel and started walking again.

  Steve turned, caught up with her, and Carlos–back in human form and wearing a pair of extremely baggy shorts and a Georgetown t-shirt he’d found somewhere–came up on the other side.

  “Where are we going now?” Carlos asked.

  “I think at the moment, the Lord Telford is just down the alley from Nathan’s. Neither place exists, so they have a habit of keeping each other company in the evenings.” Ace waved vaguely at the lights across the river. “We’ll go back to saving the world tomorrow, but right now, I feel like relaxing with a beer and a couple of games of darts.”

  “Have you been able to read the business plan I put together?” Carlos began what clearly was a rehearsed sales pitch. “I think we can make this private eye thing work, and after a year or so, we can think about selling franchises across the country–”

  “Carlos.” Steve and Ace spoke in unison. “Shut the hell up.”

  Carlos looked as if he was going to burst with plans and ideas but eventually subsided into silence. The three of them continued their slow walk across Key Bridge, admiring the gothic towers of Georgetown University, the bright turmoil of the clubs along M Street, and the quiet flow of the Potomac.

  READING RONIN

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  GOLD FOR SAN JOAQUIN

  BY A.R. ARRINGTON

  Framed for his family’s murder, their homestead burnt to the ground, and the people who should protect him seeking to shoot him as an outlaw, 16-year-old Jacob Thorn must become a man. They killed his father for his family's gold and now, they will stop at nothing to kill Jacob and cover up the truth. On the run and desperate, Jacob enlists the help of his father’s best friend and decides it’s time to stop running and start taking the fight to his enemies.

  COURIER

  BY TERRY IRVING

  Rick Putnam is running for his life. A Vietnam Veteran riding a motorcycle for a national news network, he's picked up something too hot to handle. So hot that a reporter and a camera crew has already been killed and a rogue CIA kill squad is on his tail. Stick with this charismatic character as he fights his way all the way to 1600 Pennsylvania in his battle for the truth.

  "An action-packed tale of murder and political intrigue set in the politically turbulent 1970s.... Irving portrays [courier Rick Putnam] as a classic pulp- fiction hero: a chiseled, chain-smoking ex-soldier who's always ready with snappy quips. ... Irving's story is relentlessly paced, punctuated by bursts of action and violence, and driven by artfully unfolding suspense....An exciting and gritty…thriller."

  –Kirkus Reviews.

  “Rick Putnam is a recent Vietnam vet in the early 1970s who works as a courier for a Washington, DC television station while trying to put his life back together after being injured in the war...."Courier" is a tense story set in the days before social media, when news professionals still need to develop film in a dark room and splice footage together. Author Irving clearly knows the inside of the news business in a different time..."

  –Reviewed by Kathleen Heady for Suspense Magazine

  "To call Terry Irving's book a "page turner" is a gross understatement. As a journalist who covered Vietnam developments in Washington, and the Watergate scandal, this book is entirely believable, scary, and thrilling. Irving is in the top tier of political- mystery writers. And as a (ABC) network producer, he draws on a vast inside knowledge to keep readers glued to every page. If you like politics and a good mystery, you will love this book."

  –Bill Greenwood, former White House Correspondent

  "With all the power and speed of a motorcycle courier trying to beat a deadline, and the cyclist's fine balance of thriller thrust and inside- the-newsroom detail, Terry Irving's new novel, "Courier," will keep you entertained from start to finish."

  –Dave Marash, former Nightline Reporter

  THE AUTHOR

  Edward B. (Terry) Irving (seen here in both 1969 and 2010) is a four-time Emmy award-winning writer and producer. He has also won three Peabody Awards, three DuPont Awards, and has been a producer, editor, or writer with ABC, CNN, Fox and MSNBC.

  Exhibit A Publishing released his first novel, Courier, on May, 1, 2014 and subsequently went out of business on June 7, 2014. Edward denies all responsibility. Courier went on to win several awards, sell close to 10,000 copies, and form the nucleus of Ronin Robot Press.

  Gold for San Joaquin by Cliff Roberts was the first Western released by Ronin Robot Press, followed by Texas Spitfire, a Western romance by Chloe Mayer. Undefeated Love, a story of growing up in 1972 by Bruce Bennett, should be ready by March 2015. Warrior, the sequel to Courier, will be released in June of 2015. Last, but not least, Taxi Dancer, the first in a series featuring private eye Angel Pearl and set in 1930's Manila, is due later in 2015.

  In addition, Ronin Robot Press is putting together an exciting lineup of the best new writers in Westerns, Romance, and Erotica. Check them out exclusively on Amazon’s Kindle.