by Ben Reeder
I closed my eyes, and touched the place in my mind where magick lived. Like many practitioners, I could open my third eye all the way if I needed to. I just hated to do it. It made peeping at someone’s aura seem like a casual look in a window. Nothing could be hidden from a fully opened third eye, and a lot of magi had lost themselves to the wonders and horrors they Saw. Illusions, masks, lies: all of those were ripped aside, and you were able to see the world as it truly was. People were revealed as their true selves; secrets and lies all revealed at the same time. But more importantly, the past and future were no barrier to it, either. Given what had happened in this room, I was pretty damned sure I didn’t want to see what the past held in here.
I did it anyway.
When I opened my eyes, I felt my mystic eye open completely, and I Saw. The auras of a thousand students flowed into and through the room, then faded as my Sight went deeper, and the series of wards on the walls and ceiling were revealed. They were beautiful in their symmetry and grace, masterpieces of harmony between wielder and the Magick he had used to create them. All of them had the red glow of activation, and loose strands of energy floating toward the center of the room, and I willed my Eye to seek who or what they had been tethered to. A ghostly figure of Mr. Chomsky appeared at the center of the energy strands, and I could see several others that stretched out of the room as well, and those were glowing red, too.
Mr. Chomsky’s aura permeated the whole room, a vibrant yellow color that felt like sunshine and campfires and the scent of baking bread. After a moment, I saw the aura footprint of whoever had come into this room the night before. It was ugly, a dark brown, murky thing, and I smelled wet fur, moldy forest gloom, and dead things through it. It wasn’t human, and it wasn’t anything I had ever run into before. Then, my Eye began revealing bits of the past, a clawed hand slashing, flinging blood in its wake, and loving the way the pain lanced through its prey. The undeniable feel of a mage invoking enough power to flip a car, yet focusing it so tightly that it didn’t even disturb the papers on the desk. And then came the response, and I found myself closing my third eye reflexively. Sorcery, as black as it came, was about to blast through the memory of that room, and it wasn’t all that focused. Even an after-flash of that kind of raw, untamed malevolence could send me into a brainless oblivion. I closed my eyes in a sympathetic response and took a step backwards blindly, and caught the doorjamb before I fell. Then, there was a hand on my shoulder, and soothing words came to my ears. I let my brain sort of shut down then, and let the world kind of fade into a haze for a while.
After that, it was mostly impressions. There were sirens and people in uniforms. Someone was asking me questions, and I said, “I don’t know,” a lot. The girl who had been with me cried, and threw up a couple more times. Somewhere in the whole thing, Mom showed up, looking worried and relieved at the same time. She asked me a lot of questions, and I said, “I’m fine, Mom,” a lot.
I knew my head was getting clearer when someone finally brought up counseling and therapy, and I instantly wanted to tell them where they could stick that idea.
“No, thanks,” I said instead.
“But, son, what you’ve seen today was pretty terrible, and you have no idea what kind of impact that can have on the human psyche,” the chubby guy in a sweater and glasses was telling me. “You have to process the deathing experience and work through the trauma, so that you can go on to work through the grieving process in a healthy and positive way.”
“Look, it sucked,” I said, “and all the psychobabble bullshit in the world isn’t going to erase it from the inside of my head. There’s nothing positive about someone getting killed. It just sucks, and you go on. I don’t need to lay on a couch to know how to do that.” I stood up, and Mom got to her feet with me.
She gave me a serious, searching look. “You’re sure you’re okay, then?” I nodded.
“Miss Fortunato, please,” the analyst started, missing Mom’s last name. He didn’t get any further.
“My son has said no,” Mom said icily. “You should stop talking.” With that said, she led the way back out of the little conference room into the main office.
Principal Ravenhearst was waiting for us. “Miss Murathy, I'm sorry Chance had to see this,” she said with a little warmth. Coming from her, I figured this was what passed for gushing sympathy. “We have no idea who would want to do something like this. Mr. Chomsky was a favorite with almost all of the students. The police are doing everything they can to find the…person responsible. We’re canceling classes for today, but the police have some questions for your son before you go.”
“He’s already told them everything he saw. Haven’t they made him relive that enough?” Mom demanded.
“It’s not about the body, Miss Murathy,” another voice cut into the conversation.
Mom and I turned to look at the newcomer, a tall woman with medium-brown skin, in gray slacks and a matching jacket with a white blouse. She wore a badge on her belt, and the butt of a pistol was visible at her right hip. Even without the badge, everything about this woman screamed “cop,” right down to the reddish hair pulled back into a severe bun at the back of her head.
“It seems that your son was the last person to see Mr. Chomsky alive yesterday afternoon.”
Mom started at the woman’s claim, and I frowned. I had seen him right after school, and he'd made no secret of it, but I doubted he'd penciled in “4:30, ambush demonic apprentice; 5:00, turn over to Conclave for judgment; 6:00, dinner at Olive Garden.” I was pretty sure it wasn't common knowledge.
“He was still in one piece when I left him,” I said defensively.
“Let’s take this into Principal Ravenhurst’s office, shall we?” the detective said with a gesture toward the door.
We followed her into Miss Ravenhurst’s office, and she closed the door behind us before she slid in behind the principal's desk. Miss Ravenhearst looked like she'd just eaten a lemon whole, but I didn't think she was going to argue with a woman carrying a badge and a gun.
“Chance, I’m Detective Holly Roberts, with the eighth precinct homicide division,” she began, after we had all sat down. She took out a bent and battered notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen, and flipped through a few pages before she went on. “To answer your mother’s question, Mr. Chomsky had your name in his appointment book yesterday afternoon. What did you two discuss?”
“He’d asked me to come by his classroom to discuss, um, more appropriate placement for me,” I told her. It seemed to satisfy her, because she smiled and wrote something down. I wasn’t sure if that was good thing or not. “He wanted me to test for his um, his AP science class.” Just saying the words made me feel something heavy and painful in my chest, a sadness I'd been able to ward off up until then.
“So, you didn't argue with him?” Detective Roberts asked.
“No,” I growled, “Mr. Chomsky was really cool to me yesterday. He even got Brad Duncan off my back before first period.”
“Did he now?” Her pen scratched on her trusty notepad. “Can you account for your whereabouts between four thirty and about eleven thirty?”
“Is my son a suspect in this, detective?” Mom asked before I could answer, her voice hard.
“That's what I'm tying to determine right now, Miss Murathy,” Detective Roberts said. “If your son can establish an alibi, then we can eliminate him as a potential suspect.”
“I was home with my mom and my sister until about seven, and I was at Dante's from seven thirty until I got home around ten.”
“Why are you focusing on my son, detective? Chance only started here yesterday,” Mom pressed on.
“Your son's name has come up several times in the opening hours of our investigation, and given his recent connection to the fire at Truman High school, we couldn't discount the possibility of his involvement in this. But if his story checks out, you won't hear any more from us.” Roberts stood up and offered her hand across the desk.
I stood up
when Detectives Roberts did, but Mom stayed in her seat for a heartbeat longer.
“I understand that you're just doing your job, detective,” Mom said calmly as she stood slowly and reached across the desk to take the other woman's hand, “but that doesn't mean I like the way my son is being treated.” You could have chipped ice off my mom's words, her voice was so cold.
“I'm sorry, Miss Murathy, I truly am,” Roberts said without a trace of remorse in her voice. Mom all but dragged me out of the office. The halls were empty. Nothing like a murder to clear a place out.
“What happened between you and this Brad Duncan?” Mom demanded as soon as we were out the door.
“Turned out to be nothing, Mom. He was in my face, and Mr. Chomsky came along and took care of it. You would've been proud of me, I didn't start a fight, and I so could have.”
“Then why didn't you say anything about it?”
I shrugged. “Forgot about it after fifth period. I had better stuff on my mind. Besides, I figured you'd make a big deal out of it.”
“If you'd told me yesterday, I wouldn't be!”
“I told you, it was no big deal! Can't you just be okay with me doing the right thing, Mom? I didn't fu…I didn't screw up! That's the best I can do!” The tight feeling in my chest was getting worse, and Mom looked at me with a shocked expression on her face.
“Oh, son…you did fine,” she said after a moment. She put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me to her. I was too messed up to give even a token protest, though I was probably breaking about a dozen rules of being a teenager by letting my mom hug me in public. “I forgot…what you saw this morning. I'm sorry.”
“It's okay, Mom,” I said into her shoulder before she let me go.
“Why don't we drop your books off at your locker, son, and I'll take you home. The last thing you should be thinking about is this place for the rest of the day.” We headed down the halls, both silent until we reached my locker, and I tossed my books inside.
“He said I had a gem of a mind,” I told her as we passed the teachers' lounge.
“He was right, son. He sounds like a wonderful man, and I’m sorry you lost him so soon after you met him. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the grief counseling the school offered?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine, Mom. I just miss him. Grief therapy won’t bring him back.”
The tight ache in my chest was fading, replaced by a cold certainty. The cops were going to be looking for a normal human as their killer, but anything tough enough to kill a mage as powerful as Mr. Chomsky was as not-normal as you were likely to get, and certainly not human. There was no way the cops were going to even find Mr. Chomsky's killer, and they sure as all Nine Hells weren't prepared to stop them.
There was only one person that I knew of who could do both.
Me.
Chapter 9
~ You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious. ~
Obi Wan Kenobi, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
I had a paranormal murder to solve, and a supernatural killer to bring to justice. If only I could get my mother to leave the house so I could get started. The detectives in her novels didn't have these problems. I was beginning to see why people didn't always enjoy normal life as much as I did. It took an hour of reassuring Mom that I wasn't going to have a nervous breakdown on the spot before she convinced herself it was okay to leave me alone at home.
“There's sarma left in the fridge if you get hungry, and you have my number at Spirit Garden if you need me. Are you sure you don't want to come with me to the store? Elaine would love to meet you, and she wouldn't mind if you hung out with us.” She stood at the door, keys in hand, but her stance made it look more like she was coming in than getting ready to head out.
“I really don't want to be around people right now, Mom. I just need to sort stuff out in my head, ya know?” Mom just nodded, and her eyes looked kind of sad for a moment. She came back in and put her arms around me. It was the tenth hug she'd given me in the past hour, and I was beginning to think they were as much for her as for me.
“I understand, sweetheart. If you need to talk or anything, just call me, okay? I hate leaving you at home like this, but…” Her face scrunched up in a pained look.
“You have to make a living, Mom, I know. I'll be fine, really.” I stepped back and gave her a smile, but it wasn't very convincing.
“All right, son. You're so strong, sometimes. Okay, I'm going! If you need anything…” she said as she made for the door.
“I'll call. I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry!” I waited until I heard her van pull away, then I took the stairs two at a time up to my room. It was just now coming up on eleven, and I knew Dee got out of school at three thirty, then stayed at a friend's house until Mom got off work at four. I had about five hours to myself, and I had a list as long as my arm of things I needed. Some of it, I knew I could get at a hardware store, but the really important stuff meant going behind the Veil, back into the world I had just left. That was a trip I wasn't really looking forward to.
I grabbed my meager supply of magickal gear and my knife, then headed back down to the garage. When Mom and I had been cleaning her stuff out of my room, I'd seen her bike hanging up on hooks on one wall. I had a lot of ground to cover today, and I couldn't do it on foot with the time I had. Mom's Schwinn would have to be my wheels today, and no matter how dorky it seemed, twelve speeds beat two feet any day of the week.
The first few moments were dicey as I coasted out of the driveway, but you really don't ever forget how to ride a bike. I wobbled into the street for a few yards before I got the hang of pedaling and steering at the same time again, and it was all good. The feel of the cool, damp October wind on my face and flowing through my hair was the most wonderful thing I had felt in a long time. For a little while I forgot about what I had to do, and just went where the front wheel pointed me. I took turns randomly, and went through all twelve speeds to see just how fast I could go. Somewhere along the way, I started laughing.
I was free, really free, to go wherever I wanted, even if that was just…nowhere. I never wanted to lose that, and I was sure as the Nine Hells not going to let Dulka get me back. It was a sobering reminder that there were things I had to do. If I was going to stay free, I needed more spell materials than I had access to. Divinations and invocations took more juice than I could scrounge from my mom’s spice rack. I needed the real stuff, the esoteric items that could fuel some serious magick. I turned the bike southeast, and leaned into the corner.
My first stop was a hardware store I’d seen during our shopping trip on Sunday. For a seeking spell, I needed copper filings, a magnet, and chalk: all things I could get with a little smart shopping at the local Hammer’N’Post. I grabbed a few pieces of copper tubing, a few magnets, a coil of copper wire, and a large chunk of purple chalk to start with, and some copper connectors and caps for another project I wanted to work on. The last thing I picked up was a heavy file. The clerk gave me a look as she rang my order up.
“Science project,” I said flatly, as she took my money and looked skeptical. Her mouth made a silent “o” as she suddenly filed everything away as not needing to make sense anymore and made change. She never did ask me why I wasn’t in school in the middle of the day. I stepped out of the hardware store and took a deep breath. The next part was what I was really dreading.
There were three places in New Essex that existed completely behind the barrier of illusion and disbelief that the mystical community called the Veil. The biggest was the Underground, a place below downtown where most of the legitimate folks lived and did their otherworldly business. A person could live a full and happy life without setting foot, tentacle, or other locomotive appendage outside the Underground, and there were a lot of beings who did just that. It was also the center of the Conclave's power, so it was off-limits to me, thanks to my father and Dulka. Warlocks were considered “kill on sight” there.
The seco
nd place, the Bazaar, was kind of the mixing place between the mystical and cowan worlds. Merchants in-the-know from the normal world made serious bank selling ordinary crap to magickals at prices that would have been considered extortion on the mundane side but were completely fair behind the Veil. The convenience was worth it for a lot of the magickals. Mystic merchants did the same thing for folks in-the-know from the cowan side.
The place I needed to go was the sleaziest of the three: a maze of back alleys and dark corners in the old Joplin district called the Hive. I had to take a bus to the nearest El-train station, and pay extra to stash Mom's bike in one of the special lockers. On the up side, I had it for the whole week if I needed it.
The train was mostly empty, except for a few guys in Night City Kings' colors at the back of the car. They gave me the eye as I got on, and one of them made to move. I flashed a sign that said I was a warlock “walking,” or on my way somewhere important, and I wasn't in a mood to be asked to whip up a number nine potion for a horny gangbanger. Most gang members believed in the mystical, mostly because they spent too much time on the wrong side of a threshold after dark. The Kings even had their own shaman, and they weren't willing to cross a warlock or a mage. After I flashed the sign at them, they sat back and gave me their own walking sign. We kept a wary distance from each other until they got off on K Street.
The entrance to the Hive was only a few blocks from the Q Street station, and I didn't waste any time getting there. Joplin might have been a bustling industrial town back when New Essex first annexed it, but it was a slum now, and not everyone on the streets respected magick workers.