Magic City

by Paula Guran

  “Killing things again, Father?” said Moira’s cool disapproving voice, cutting though Jon’s soliloquy.

  And suddenly Tom could breathe again. They’d found her somehow, Samhain’s Coven had, but she wasn’t one of them.

  “So judgmental.” Tom had expected something . . . bigger from the man’s voice. His own Alpha, for instance, could have made a living as a televangelist with his raw fire-and-brimstone voice. This man sounded like an accountant.

  “Kill her. You have to kill her before she destroys us—I have seen it.” It was the girl from Jon’s message, Molly.

  “You couldn’t see your way out of a paper bag, Molly,” said Moira. “Not that you’re wrong, of course.”

  There were other people in the barn, Tom could smell them, but they stayed quiet.

  “You aren’t going to kill me,” said Kouros. “If you could have done that you’d have done it before now. Which brings me to my point, why are you here?”

  “To stop you from killing this man,” Moira told him.

  “I’ve killed men before—and you haven’t stopped me. What is so special about this one?”

  Moira felt the burden of all those deaths upon her shoulders. He was right. She could have killed him before—before he’d killed anyone else.

  “This one has a brother,” she said.

  She felt Tom’s presence in the barn, but her look-past-me spell must have still been working because no one seemed to notice. And any witch with a modicum of sensitivity to auras would have felt him. His brother was a faint trace to her left—which his constant stream of words made far clearer than her magic was able to.

  Her father she could only follow from his voice.

  There were other people in the structure—she hadn’t quite decided what the cavernous building was: probably a barn, given the dirt floor and faint odor of cow—but she couldn’t pinpoint them either. She knew where Molly was, though. And Molly was the important one, Kouros’s right hand.

  “Someone paid you to go up against me?” Her father’s voice was faintly incredulous. “Against us?”

  Then he did something, made some gesture. She wouldn’t have known except for Molly’s sigh of relief. So she didn’t feel too badly when she tied Molly’s essence, through the gum she still held, into her shield.

  When the coven’s magic hit the shield, it was Molly who took the damage. Who died. Molly, her little sister whose presence she could no longer feel.

  Someone, a young man, screamed Molly’s coven name—Mentha. And there was a flurry of movement where Moira had last sensed her.

  Moira dropped the now-useless bit of gum on the ground.

  “Oh, you’ll pay for that,” breathed her father. “Pay in pain and power until there is nothing left of you.”

  Someone sent power her way, but it wasn’t a concerted spell from the coven and it slid off her protections without harm. Unlike the fist that struck her in the face, driving her glasses into her nose and knocking her to the ground—her father’s fist. She’d recognize the weight of it anywhere.

  Unsure of where her enemies were, she stayed where she was, listening. But she didn’t hear Tom, he was just suddenly there. And the circle of growing terror that spread around him—of all the emotions possible, it was fear that she could sense most often—told her he was in his lupine form. It must have been impressive.

  “Your victim has a brother,” she told her father again, knowing he’d hear the smugness in her tones. “And you’ve made him very angry.”

  The beast beside her roared. Someone screamed . . . even witches are afraid of monsters.

  The coven broke. Children most of them, they broke and ran. Molly’s death followed by a beast out of their worst nightmares were more than they could face, partially-trained, deliberately crippled fodder for her father that they were.

  Tom growled, the sound finding a silent echo in her own chest as if he were a bass drum. He moved, a swift silent predator, and someone who hadn’t run died. Tom’s brother, she noticed had fallen entirely silent.

  “A werewolf,” breathed Kouros. “Oh, now there is a worthy kill.” But she felt his terror and knew he’d attack Tom before he took care of her.

  She reached out with her left hand, intending to spread her own defenses to the wolf—though that would leave them too thin to be very effective—but she hadn’t counted on the odd effect he had on her magic. On her.

  Her father’s spell—a vile thing that would have induced terrible pain and permanently damaged Tom had it hit—connected just after she touched the wolf. And for a moment, maybe a whole breath, nothing happened.

  Then she felt every hair under her hand stand to attention and Tom made an odd sound and power swept through her from him—all the magic Kouros had sent—and it filled her well to overflowing.

  And she could see. For the first time since she’d been thirteen she could see.

  She stood up, shedding broken pieces of sunglasses to the ground. The wolf beside her was huge, chocolate-brown, and easily tall enough to leave her hand on his shoulder as she came to her feet. A silvery scar curled around his snarling muzzle. His eyes were yellow-brown and cold. A sweeping glance showed her two dead bodies, one burned the other savaged; a very dirty, hairy man tied to a post with his hands behind his back who could only be Tom’s brother Jon.

  And her father, looking much younger than she remembered him. No wonder he went for teens to populate his coven—he was stealing their youth as well as their magic. A coven should be a meeting of equals, not a feeding trough for a single greedy witch.

  She looked at him and saw that he was afraid. He should be. The werewolf had frightened him, too, no matter how calm he’d sounded. He’d used all of his magic to power his spell—he’d left himself defenseless. And now he was afraid of her.

  Just as she had dreamed. She pulled the stone out of her pocket—and it seemed to her that she had all the time in the world to use it and cut her right hand open. Then she pointed it, her bloody hand of power at him.

  “By the blood we share,” she whispered and felt the magic gather. “Blood follows blood.”

  “You’ll die, too,” Kouros said frantically as if she didn’t know.

  Before she spoke the last word she lifted her other hand from Tom’s soft fur so that none of this magic would fall to him. And as soon as she did, she could no longer see. But she wouldn’t be blind for long.

  Tom started moving before her fingers left him, knocking into her with his hip and spoiling her aim. Her magic flooded through him, hitting him instead of the one she’d aimed all that power at. The wolf let it sizzle through his bones and returned it to her, clean.

  Pleasant as that was, he didn’t let it distract him from his goal. He was moving so fast that the man was still looking at Moira when the wolf landed on him.

  Die, he thought as he buried his fangs in Kouros’s throat, drinking his blood and his death in one delicious mouthful of flesh. This one had moved against the wolf’s family, against the wolf’s witch. Satisfaction made the meat even sweeter.

  “Tom?” Moira sounded lost.

  “Tom’s fine,” answered his brother’s rusty voice, he’d talked himself hoarse. “You just sit there until he calms down a little. You all right, lady?”

  Tom lifted his head and looked at his witch. She was huddled on the ground looking small and lost, her scarred face bared for all the world to see. She looked fragile, but Tom knew better and Jon would learn.

  As the dead man under his claws had learned. Kouros died knowing she would have killed him.

  He had been willing to give her that kill—but not if it meant her death. So Tom had the double satisfaction of saving her and killing the man. He went back to his meal.

  “Tom, stop that,” Jon said. “Ick. I know you aren’t hungry. Stop it now.”

  “Is Kouros dead?” His witch sounded shaken up.

  “As dead as anyone I’ve seen,” said Jon. “Look, Tom. I appreciate the sentiment; I’ve wanted t
o do that any time this last day. But I’d like to get out of here before some of those kids decide to come back while I’m still tied up.” He paused. “Your lady needs to get out of here.”

  Tom hesitated, but Jon was right. He wasn’t hungry anymore and it was time to take his family home.

  Patricia Briggs is the author of the #1 New York Times-bestselling Mercedes Thompson series, the eighth of which—Night Broken—was published earlier this year. She lives with six horses, a dog, three cats, snakes, birds, kids, and a very awesome and tolerant husband in a home that resembles a zoo crossed with a library. The horses live outside.

  The City: Nameless, but typical, American city.

  The Magic: You are told you are a wizard, but wizardry is nothing at all like TV or the movies. Plus there’s an “Other Side” out to harm the world . . . and you. But it’s all crap—right?

  STONE MAN

  Nancy Kress

  Jared Stoffel never even saw the car that hit him. He ollied off the concrete steps of the Randolph Street Rec Center down onto the street and was coming down on his skateboard when wham! his butt was smacked hard enough to rattle his teeth and Jared went down. A second before the pain registered, he threw up his arms to shield his face. The Bird-house went flying—he saw it in the air, wheels spinning, a moment before his body hit the street. All at once he was smothered under a ton of stones he couldn’t breathe he was going to die and someone was screaming but it was mostly the rocks —God the boulders flying to land on top of him, under him, everywhere . . . Everything went black.

  “You with us yet, child?”

  “Rocks.” It came out “bogs.” Jared put his hand to his face. The hand stopped an inch away on his swollen mouth.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Who.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Breeday.”

  “Just rest a while. You took a nasty fall.” The blurry old nurse dressed in some stupid pants with yellow ducks on them stuck a needle in Jared’s arm and went away.

  When he came to again, everything was clearer. A TV on a shelf high up near the ceiling droned out some news about an earthquake someplace. An old man in a white coat sat in a chair by Jared’s bed, reading. Jared tried to sit up, and the man rose and eased him back down. “Just stay quiet a little longer.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Perry Street Medical Center. You got hit by a car while skateboarding, but you have nothing more than two fractured ribs and a lacerated hand. You’re a very lucky young man.”

  “Oh, right. Just lousy with luck.” The words came out correctly; his lips weren’t nearly as swollen. The tiny room had no windows. How long had he been in here?

  “I’m Dr. Kendall and I need some information. What’s your name, son?”

  “I’m not your son.” Jared lay trying to remember this accident. Shawn—he’d been skateboarding with Shawn. Shawn had yelled when Jared got hit. “Shawn?”

  “Your name’s Shawn? Shawn What?”

  “I’m not Shawn, dumb-ass. He’s my friend, with me. Where’s Shawn?”

  The doctor grimaced. “Some friend. He took off running as soon as the ambulance arrived. What were you two doing that he didn’t want to get caught? Never mind, I don’t want to know. But I do need to know your name.”

  “Why?”

  “To notify your parents, for one thing.”

  “Forget it. She won’t come.”

  Something moved behind the doctor’s eyes. He glanced up at the TV, still showing pictures of an earthquake, then returned to watching Jared closely. Too closely. The guy was maybe fifty, maybe sixty, with white hair, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a—was he even really a doctor? Jared said, “Hey, stop staring like that, sicko.”

  “Ah,” the doctor said sadly. “I see. Damn. But I still need to know your name. For the records we—”

  “I don’t got any insurance. So you can just let me out of here now.” Again Jared tried to sit up.

  “Lie down, son. We can’t release you yet. Now please tell me your name.”

  “Jared.”

  “Jared What?”

  “None of your business.” If he didn’t say any more, maybe they’d throw him out. The doc said he wasn’t hurt bad. He could crash at Shawn’s. If Ma saw him like this, she’d smash the Birdhouse for sure. She— “Hey! Where’s my deck?”

  “Your what?”

  “My deck! The Bird! My skateboard!”

  “Oh. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “You mean you just left it in the street?” Gone now, for sure. And it had been a huge set of trouble to steal it!

  Again that strange expression in Kendall’s eyes. He said quietly, “Jared, I will personally replace your skateboard, buy you a brand-new and very good one, if you will answer some questions for me first.”

  “You? Buy me a new deck? For giving you what?”

  “I already told you. All you need do is answer some questions.”

  “Nobody gives away new decks for free!”

  “I will, to you.” Kendall’s eyes, Jared saw, were light brown, full of some emotion Jared didn’t understand. But he wasn’t picking up rip-off vibes from the man. Hope surged through him. A new deck . . . maybe an Abec four . . . He squashed the hope. Hope just got you hurt.

  Kendall reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of bills. “How much does a good skateboard cost?”

  Jared’s eyes hung on the money. He could get a Hawk deck . . . good trucks and wheels . . . “Two hundred dollars.” Maybe the old guy didn’t know what stuff cost.

  Kendall counted ten twenties and held them out in his closed hand. “After you answer three questions.”

  “Just three? Okay, but better not try anything perv.”

  “First, your name and address.”

  “Jared Parsell, 62 Randolph.”

  Kendall withdrew his hand. “You’re lying.”

  How did the old bastard know? “Wait, don’t put the money away . . . I’m Jared Stoffel, and I live at 489 Center Street.” When he lived anywhere at all. Ma, strung out on crystal most of the time, only noticed when he screwed up, not when he stayed away. She was pretty lame about time.

  Kendall said, “When were you born?”

  “April 6, 1993.”

  Closing his eyes, Kendall moved his lips silently, as if figuring something.

  Finally, he said, as if it mattered, “Full moon.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Now the last question: How did all those stones get around you during the hit-and-run?”

  “What?”

  “When the ambulance arrived, you were lying on, and were covered with, small stones. They appear to have come from a flowerbed on the other side of the Recreation Center. How did they get with you?”

  A vague memory stirred in Jared’s mind. Rocks—he was being smothered with rocks, and someone—him—said “bogs.” And Shawn yelled something as Jared fell, something Jared couldn’t remember now . . .

  Jared had thought the rocks were in his mind—something from, like, the pain of the accident. Not real. But maybe . . .

  Kendall was watching him sadly. Why sad? This old psycho gave Jared the creeps.

  “I don’t know anything about any stones.”

  “You and Shawn weren’t playing some game involving the stones? Throwing them at cars or something?”

  “Jesus, man, I’m thirteen, not eight!”

  “I see,” Dr. Kendall said. He handed the two hundred dollars to Jared, who seized it eagerly, even though leaning forward caused pain to stab through his torso. Jared moved his legs toward the end of the bed.

  Kendall eased them back. “Not yet, son, I’m afraid.” He looked even sadder than before.

  “Get your hands off me! I answered your stupid questions!”

  “Yes, and the money is yours. But you can’t leave yet. Not until you see one other person.”

  “I don’t want to see any more doctors!”

  “I
t’s not a doctor. I’m a doctor. Larson is a . . . well, you’ll see. Larson!”

  The door opened and another man entered. This one was young, big, tough-looking, with long hair and a do-rag. He wore a leather jacket and gold necklace, serious gold. A dealer, maybe a gangbanger, maybe even a leader. Or a narc. He stood at the end of Jared’s bed, big hands resting lightly on the metal railing, and stared unsmiling. “So is he, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure? Never mind, I know you don’t make mistakes. But, God . . . look at him.”

  “Look at your dumb-ass self,” Jared said, but even to him the words sounded lame. Larson scared him, although he wasn’t going to admit that.

  “Watch your mouth, kid,” Larson snarled. “I don’t like this any better than you do. But if you are one of us, then you are. The doc doesn’t make mistakes. Damn it to hell anyway!”

  “If I’m what? What am I?” Jared said.

  “A wizard,” Dr. Kendall said. “You’re a wizard, Jared. As of now.”

  Larson left the explanations to Kendall. With a disgusted look over his shoulder at the hospital bed, Larson stormed out, slamming the door. Jared caught the scandalized look of a passing nurse just before the door shook on its hinges.

  “A wizard. Yeah, right,” Jared said. “Any minute now I’m gonna turn you into a pigeon. No, wait—you’re already a pigeon if you believe that crap.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Kendall said. “During your accident you summoned those rocks. The smoothest stones from the flowerbed flew through the air and landed on you, under you, around you. You skidded across the pavement on them as if on ball bearings. That broke your fall, maybe saved your life.”

  “Right. Anything you say.”

  “You were born under the full moon, also a requirement, although we don’t know why. You—”

  “And you’re a wizard, too, huh?”

  “No,” Kendall said sadly, “I’m not. I can spot one is all, and so the Brotherhood uses me.”

  “Uh-huh. So you can’t, like, show me something wizardy right now, and Larson left before he had to. Convenient.”