by A. J. Menden
Joseph didn’t seem to notice. “Thank God! I’m sorry I left you, man!” He went to embrace him, bloody arms and all.
Donald’s blast of magic took him square in the chest. We stared in horror as Joseph crashed backward down the stairs, landing in the shattered glass and debris of the chandelier at the bottom. He didn’t move. Neither did his brother.
“What the hell?” Cyrus turned wild eyes on me. “I thought he said all the magic was drained out of him!”
“He’s one of the Brothers of Power,” I murmured. “I guess not even an Afieral spell’s going to be able to drain him completely.” I glanced back to the figure on the stairs, who was considering us with empty eyes. “But it’s obviously completely messed with his head.”
Too late I remembered what Wesley had said earlier: Joseph’s willpower as well as his magic was affected by the attack. We could only hope the damage Donald had suffered wasn’t permanent. And the damage Joseph had just suffered.
“Donald,” I said, in the most soothing voice I could muster. “Your brother brought us here to help you. He was worried about you.”
“Lizards in my brain,” Donald said, pulling at his hair and actually ripping a chunk out. “Their tongues are forked.”
“It’s okay,” I said, taking a cautious step forward. “We’ll get the lizards out, I promise.”
“Their numbers don’t add up,” Donald whined. He frowned as he saw me getting closer. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do,” I said calmly. “I’m Fantazia. Remember?”
He blasted me with magic.
The fireball took me in the chest. Luckily, I’d been tracing a shield spell with my finger, so the spell didn’t hit me as hard as it had Joseph. It didn’t knock me off my feet, instead knocking me into Cyrus.
“She’s evil!” Donald shrieked.
Cyrus laughed and righted me. “Seems he does remember you.”
“If we survive this, remind me to kill you later,” I retorted.
Donald attacked again, ending conversation. “Make the evil burn!” We ducked as he threw another fireball in our direction. His eyes searched the room, I’m not certain for what. “Make it pay!” He released another gout of fire.
“He’s going to burn the building down,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. The front wall and door were now on fire.
“With us in it,” Cyrus agreed. “We should grab Joseph and get the hell out of here.”
“And leave Donald here?” I asked. Maybe I was getting sentimental in my old age, but I felt after having shared an (admittedly mediocre) evening with this man, I shouldn’t just run for the hills.
“You said it.”
“I can’t see the numbers, but they’re there!” Donald was shrieking. “With the lizards!”
I sighed and quickly spoke words to smother the fires. They fizzled out quickly, leaving a charred, blackened mess; this mansion was going to need some serious renovation. “You’re the one working with the EHJ—or at least trying to get in good with them. Shouldn’t you be trying to save this guy?”
Before Cyrus could answer, he got clobbered with a large chunk of wall; Donald had somehow magically torn it free and hurled it at him. The nut job was tearing the house apart since I’d put out his fires. Cyrus sank to the ground, groaning.
Donald had hurt his brother—possibly killed him—and knocked out Cyrus. This left me to face him alone. I thought of the many ways I could fight him, this very powerful and very crazed magic-user whom I’d once briefly considered good enough to share my bed, and decided on a course of action. I met his sad, empty eyes and thought the words directly at him, into him, through him.
“I tuoi attacchi farranno del male a te.” Your attacks will harm you, I incanted.
Donald eyed me quizzically. His poor addled brain had clearly forgotten that I cast my magic in Italian.
“Sweetheart, you don’t want to do this,” I said gently, hoping that enough of him was still in there to understand.
With an unearthly howl, he threw another chunk of wall. The wood and plaster hurtled toward me but then, almost like a boomerang, reversed itself. Donald had just enough sense and reflexes left to dive away from it, and it crashed into the wall behind him.
“I warned you,” I said as he glared at me hatefully. “Now please just stop and let us help you.”
He raised his hands and tried to hit me with an energy spell, one that magic-users like to call the Tazer. The lighting shot forward but followed the same path as the previous attack, rounding on him with full force. His body flew up into the air, hit the wall behind him, fell to the floor and jerked and twitched. It shuddered to a halt. That was all. He was down, perhaps permanently.
Someone grabbed me from behind, whipping me into the nearby wall. “You hurt him, you bitch!” I was slammed into the wall again. “You’re supposed to be helping him and you killed him instead!”
“What the hell, Joseph?” I shouted. “I didn’t do anything; he did it to himself. I told him to stop. And, aren’t you forgetting that he just tried to kill you?”
“You killed my brother,” Joseph sobbed. He looked like he wanted to kill me.
“Look around you, Joseph! The walls were on fire, and he threw chunks of it at me and Cyrus. He tried to kill us. I thought you were dead! He was too far gone. Whatever attacked you both drove him completely out of his mind, and the same thing could have happened to you if you hadn’t run away.”
Joseph and I were distracted by a voice. “No, no, don’t help me get up. Your concern is touching. Really,” Cyrus was saying, pulling himself upright among some debris, still holding his head. “I’m fine. Maybe a few internal injuries. Just a little concussion.”
“Nothing to worry about with you,” I tossed back. “Always knew you were hardheaded.”
Of course, Donald wasn’t dead, and this was the moment he chose—like any good movie villain—to come charging down the steps. I immediately began a shielding spell, but it was going to finish too late to protect the three of us.
Surprisingly, Cyrus had it under control. He simply stepped in front of me and punched Donald in the stomach. Donald went down. “Time to go to sleep now,” he said, bending over to do some sort of complicated nerve pinch. Our attacker slumped over, unconscious.
“Didn’t know you were a street fighter,” I said, surprised. His frame certainly didn’t suggest he spent a lot of time in a boxing ring.
Cyrus shrugged as he straightened. “Just another skill I picked up along the way.” Taking a step, he staggered and slumped down on one knee. “Don’t suppose you know any of those healing spells the Old One does . . . ? Because my head is spinning and the sides of my vision are starting to go black.”
“Poor baby,” I mocked gently. But I was actually feeling kind of warm toward him. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, almost gently. “Adesso va meglio. There. All better.”
He stood up, absently rubbing his head. “That did work, thanks.”
“No problem,” I said. Then: “Thanks for getting in front of me like that, all heroic-like. Hanging out with the EHJ is starting to rub off, I guess.” I gave him a slight smile and let my dark hair fall into my face. I never felt comfortable being genuine, even if it was just thanking someone.
“Anything for the damsel in distress,” he said with a grin. It was warm, and his eyes kept trying to catch mine.
I gave a toss of my head, clearing the hair from my eyes and whatever moment was happening between us, trying to get back to familiar territory. I sank back into my powerful-bad-girl second skin. “Did I look like I was in distress? Please. I was worried about you two. I’ve been handling this kind of thing since before you were born.”
A bit of the heat behind his smile cooled, and he shook his head as if he knew what I was doing. “I guess you are older than dirt, Fantazia.”
“Can you two please stop flirting?” Joseph interjected, looking like he’d cheerfully strangle us.
“We’re not
flirting,” I snapped. I flirted with anything male I could find, but somehow Cyrus kept trying to engage me on a more personal level. That went beyond flirting and quite frankly scared me. No thanks.
“As if I’d bother,” Cyrus said, and instantly whatever had existed between us a moment before was gone.
Joseph glared at me. “At least act like you care about helping my brother and help me get him back to the Elite Hands of Justice. This is the last time I ask for your help with anything, Fantazia.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Then again, mortals were like this: unpredictable and ungrateful. That’s why I’d vanished into my own dimension for a few centuries. “Oh, please make that threat into a promise, Joseph.”
But as I worked the spell to transport the three of us and the unconscious Donald back to safety, I couldn’t help but be bothered by something else, someone else. It wasn’t like I had some deep, burning desire to be wanted by Cyrus, much less to engage on the level he seemed to want, but I couldn’t help but be a bit insulted as soon as he seemed no longer interested. Was it just my craving for male attention, or was it something else entirely? Then we were back at the EHJ headquarters with the alarms predictably screaming around us.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Reincarnist sat quietly listening to us recap the events of the night before. Joseph sat at his brother’s bedside. It was the next day.
Not much had been discussed last night. Immediately upon our return, Wesley had given Donald a magical version of anesthesia so he could be sure the man wouldn’t attack him during an examination. Donald had reacted strangely, falling into a deeper coma than Wesley intended, and Joseph had stayed by his bedside all night. From the looks of his rumpled state, my father had done much the same. I myself had gone home to sleep.
“So what did you find out, boss?” Cyrus asked. I noticed that during his recap he hadn’t repeated Joseph’s accusation of us flirting. But, why was I letting his omission bother me? I knocked the annoying thought out of my head with a quick shake.
Wesley sighed. “The wounds from the attacks on Joseph and Donald and Edgar look the same from my diagnostic spell. It seems like the exact same magic is being used in each case, though it’s hard to tell if the spell is being cast by the same person. I don’t know if that’s because the magic is channeled through technology or what, but the genetic signatures attached to the spells are distorted. It’s like a criminal wearing gloves or wiping fingerprints off a weapon.”
“Can you fix it? Clean up the signature or whatever?” Cyrus asked.
Wesley sighed again. “I might be able to. I’ll keep studying it and trying to cross-reference it against magic-user records in our system, double-checked against those who fit the profile, but anyone capable of casting this spell should be someone already flagged for us to keep a close eye on. This is just . . . baffling.”
“Couldn’t it be someone new?” Cyrus asked. “I’m telling you, I know all of the techno mages, and I don’t know anyone powerful enough to do this. It has to be someone new.”
Wesley smiled. “I hate to tell you this, Cyrus, but we keep an eye out on every magic-user. I do personally. And if it’s someone new, like a kid—”
“I wouldn’t want to meet that kid,” I interjected. “To be able to do this already they’d be—”
“As powerful as my daughter,” Wesley finished.
I hadn’t planned on going there, but yes, Emily was going to be one truly scary teenager someday. She’d make whoever was doing this look like a level-one magic-user. We both let that thought go unspoken.
“So you keep track of every magic-user? Even the law-abiders? That explains a lot.” Cyrus rubbed his chin in thought. “Though, I can’t imagine how you do it. I must say, it is interesting, being on this side of the crime.”
“So glad my brother’s injury has enlightened you,” Joseph said from the other side of the room.
Wesley straightened. “I will do everything I can to help him, Joseph, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll wake up or what mental state he’ll be in if he does. We’re going to have to remove him from our headquarters, however; we’re not equipped to handle him in case he goes on a rampage again. There are several psychiatric hospitals in the city that cater to the magic-using set, and—”
“My brothers and I will take care of him,” Joseph snapped, but I could hear the break in his voice. “As soon as I can get hold of them, that is.”
“You can use any of our communication—”
“I just need a quiet room so I can use a telepathic spell to contact them,” Joseph said. “Can you stay with Donald?”
“Of course,” Wesley said. “I will stay right here.”
We were quiet as Joseph left the room. When the door closed Cyrus said, “So, what’s our best hope? If we’re there when an attack like this happens, we might be able to follow the spell back to whoever’s cast it.”
I said, “Don’t overcomplicate things. Why do you think we won’t see the caster directly? If we’re there, we can see the magic-user, walk over and tell him to stop—then hit him repeatedly until he does.”
“They’re probably doing this remotely, Fantazia.”
I shook my head. “This strikes me as a precision kind of spell, and you can’t cast those by sitting in your evil lair and laughing manically to yourself. Precision requires presence.”
“Well, it requires someone to be present,” Wesley spoke up. “This is a difficult spell for one person to cast. We also have to consider that this could be a group of sorcerers working together.”
“You see Dragon cultists around every corner,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“I didn’t say that, but it’s possible,” Wesley conceded.
“Donald did say something about lizards in his brain,” Cyrus pointed out. “And what are dragons but big lizards?”
“Those were also the ramblings of a very deranged man,” I said. “Besides, the Cult of the Dragon aren’t actual dragons.” I addressed my father. “Edgar didn’t say anything about lizards, did he?”
Wesley shook his head no, but he still looked thoughtful. That’s all I needed, him getting even more obsessive about the Dragon’s cult.
“Then it could just be a strange coincidence,” I said directly to him.
“We can’t rule them out either,” Cyrus said.
“If someone’s casting this spell to get power from others, they’re not going to all pitch in to help each other,” I said. “If you’re that power hungry, you’re not going to help someone else get more, are you?”
“You might if you’re part of a team—not that you’d know much about that. Or you might if you plan on using the extra power you get to try to take theirs later,” Cyrus suggested.
I shook my head and glared at him. “This conversation is making my head hurt.”
Joseph burst back into the room. “Donald and I weren’t the only ones attacked. Nathaniel and Daniel were, too. Nathaniel was like me and barely made it out, but Daniel’s in a coma. They’re holed up in our house in the mountains. None of us have heard from Johnny.” Joseph looked like he was slipping into shock. He turned his attention to the Reincarnist, looking like a little lost child. “What’s happening?”
My father clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t know, but we will find out. I promise. And I will help in any way I can.”
He motioned Cyrus and me to follow him outside. “I want you two to start investigating this,” he said in a low voice. “If the Brothers of Power are all being targeted with this kind of spell, it’s serious. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.”
“Why us?” Cyrus asked.
“The other members of the team aren’t equipped to deal with it. They don’t know much about the magic world or”—he met my eyes—“have your connections.”
Cyrus laughed. “So a former criminal and the dark mistress of blackmail are the last line of defense.”
Wesley actually smiled. “Who better? As I said, you bot
h have better connections than I do at this point. Since Emily . . .”
“You think they’ll spill their guts to us just because we’re not good, clean family folk?” I asked. “You obviously haven’t been hanging out at my bar. What gets information is cash or power. Everybody wants something. Or they need to be threatened and intimidated.”
Wesley shrugged. “So threaten and intimidate.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t help feeling insulted. He didn’t think much of me except as someone whose soul wouldn’t blacken further with someone’s blood on her hands. “I see. Send us in. The black-ops team gets to do the wet work. All so the good guys don’t get their hands soiled.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes. “I never said that. We need to try to protect life at all costs. ‘Threaten and intimidate’ means only that. But there’s nothing wrong with letting whoever you’re fighting believe that you might destroy them. We at the Elite Hands of Justice have a reputation of pulling our punches, so to speak. You two are a bit more unpredictable.”
“So we can afford to look like possible psychopathic killers, but you can’t.”
Wesley sighed. “We can’t afford to sit on this, Fantazia. This caster is a menace. And if you’re only out for yourself, think about this: They’re targeting more and more powerful people. Who do you think they’re going to go for eventually?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, furious at his suggestion of my selfishness. “They’re welcome to try, but nothing’s going to hurt me at this point. I’ve picked enough fights with powerful mages to know. I’m more powerful than anyone else out there, and I’ve got protection against human weapons.” I motioned to the wards painted on my arms. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“No one’s immortal, Fantazia. Not even you,” Cyrus said. He looked mildly amused at my bravado.
I looked pointedly at Wesley. “Sure of that, are you?”
“Except him, but there’s something not right about him.”
Wesley shook his head. “Thanks.”
“The danger in thinking you’re immortal is that one day you’re going to find out you’re not,” Cyrus said to me.