Gypsy Witch

by David Delaney

  "I thought I couldn't leave L.A. until the council agreed my training was sufficient?" I said.

  "Yes," Lucy replied, "but Cynthia made case that your training can't be complete without you going out on runs. And a recruiting run is a zero danger scenario, so she was able to sway a majority of the Council to her way of thinking."

  "Cool," I said. "A vacation. Where are we going?"

  "It's not a vacation. It's a recruiting run. There will be no shenanigans." Lucy pointed at Wyatt and me. "The Council is still crunching the data, pinpointing exactly where we're headed but the general area is up north in San Jose."

  "When do they want us to go?" Wyatt asked.

  "Next week."

  Wyatt winced.

  "What?" Lucy asked.

  "I've got mid-terms." Wyatt frowned. "My parents will never let me go."

  Wyatt was still in high school, and while his parents were on board with his helping with Society business (their acquiescence being a part of the same crazy story that involved the President), they wouldn't let him skip school unless it was a world-threatening event. Seriously, they even got a written agreement from the Society, countersigned (but worded to limit the Society's exposure, of course) by the President himself.

  "Mid-terms? You can't just take make-up tests or something?" Lucy asked.

  "Nope," Wyatt said, stuffing his mouth with pizza.

  "Well, that might change things. I mean, if the three of us aren't available then . . ." Lucy trailed off.

  "What's the big deal?" Wyatt asked, around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni. "It's just a recruiting run, and they're usually a bust anyway."

  I glanced at Lucy; she was studying the food in front of her, a perplexed look on her face. Was she afraid to be alone with me? That seemed ridiculous, but why would she want to scrap the run just because Wyatt wasn't available? Heck, I didn't even know what a recruiting run was.

  "So, what exactly are we talking about, when we say recruiting run?" I asked.

  "It's when we go looking for Paragons," answered Wyatt.

  "I'm going to need more information." I wiped my hands on a napkin. "Do we just drive around looking for people doing magic type stuff? I mean, how do you guys pinpoint the right people? I thought that most people with magic ability were born into family lines that are already Society members."

  "Yeah, that's right," Lucy, confirmed. "But there are outliers." She gestured at me. "And, no, we don't' just drive around. We head for specific areas that the Council pre-approves. You remember the map in the Council room?"

  I'd only been in the Council's Chamber once, but it was ingrained in my memory. The gigantic floor map was the focal point of the entire chamber, so it was kind of hard to forget. The map was part of the floor; it was constructed of inlaid marble and contained a highly detailed depiction of the world. It was also animated; lines swirled through it as if it was a hi-def computer display instead of stone.

  "What about the map?" I asked.

  "Among other things, it displays large magical disturbances," said Lucy.

  "Disturbances?" I asked.

  "It's a magic tracker, dude," Wyatt offered.

  Lucy sighed, and rolled her eyes, "It's a bit more complicated than that, but yes, it registers when a large amount of magic energy is discharged. The location is crosschecked with known Society members living in that area, and if there's a disparity, we go and check it out."

  "And try to recruit whoever is throwing the whammies around," I said. It made sense: the Society was the policing agency of the magic world, and they would need to keep track of rogue magic users.

  "Exactly," said Lucy.

  "Mostly though," Wyatt said, pausing to let out a belch, "it's usually some knucklehead who's playing with a spell he found on YouTube and somehow managed to get the thing to work."

  "Seriously? How is that possible?" I asked.

  "The same way that blood mages are able to use magic," said Lucy, her voice hard.

  "Blood magic?" I leaned forward. Blood magic was a big no-no, for good reason. "There are blood magic spells just lying around the Internet waiting for someone to experiment with?"

  "We have people scouring the net, day and night, trying to prevent it," said Lucy, "but yes, sometimes a viable spell gets out."

  "Well, crap," I said.

  "But the spells are almost always non-lethal or dangerous in any way." Wyatt tried to make it sound like it was no big deal.

  "Almost always? Really?" I said sarcastically. "Well, then, there's nothing to worry about. Let's hit the road." Lucy's apprehension of going on a run with just me made more sense now: if we got into a bad situation, I could be a liability.

  "Dude, seriously, recruiting runs are easy-peasy. At the most, you'll probably run into a bunch of junior-high school kids playing at being Harry Potter," insisted Wyatt.

  I could see Lucy's shoulders visibly relax. Wyatt's words must have calmed her down.

  She looked at me as if assessing all my training over the past month. She nodded her head, more to herself than Wyatt and me. "Wyatt's right," she said. "The chances of anything bad happening are almost non-existent. I say we go." She popped a piece of cheesy pesto chicken into her mouth.

  I was happy that they both had faith in my abilities and trusted me enough to go on a run. However, I'd be lying if I didn't admit, at least to myself, that my Ollphiest senses were tingling.

  "Of course," Lucy added, "if we're going on a run, I'm going to have to ink you."

  I paused in mid-chew. "I thought you said that wouldn't work on me," I responded.

  "I've been thinking about that, and I have an idea," Lucy said, grinning mischievously.

  Uh-oh.

  Lucy had perfected a communication spell that she and Wyatt used when out in the field. It required a rune tattoo just under the ear – the spell was designed so that once the tattoo was applied, it was invisible to the naked eye. When triggered, the spell allowed the two of them to speak to one another; it was a pretty cool piece of magic.

  "It's like having magic walkie-talkies," Wyatt had explained excitedly.

  However, my Ollphiest aura dispelled any magic it came in contact with, so any hopes of me joining the communication channel was impossible – or so I had thought.

  "You want to cut me with one of your daggers?" I repeated, still in disbelief at Lucy's idea. We were back at the theatre and Lucy was in full saleswoman mode.

  "A small, surgical-like incision, to clear the spot for the tattoo," Lucy said, in her most convincing voice.

  "Incision being the key word," I said, unconsciously rubbing my earlobes protectively.

  "Don't be a baby," said Lucy. "With your super-bear power, you probably won't even feel anything."

  "Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting cut," I whined.

  "Orson, we need to be able to communicate—"

  "That's what texting is for," I interrupted.

  "Dude, it's like an insurance policy," Wyatt explained. "You know – a CYA policy."

  I knew cellphones were far from perfect, especially when magic was involved, but still – a magic tattoo seemed a bit extreme. I was a private person. I liked my alone time.

  "What if I don't want you guys poking around inside my head?" I asked.

  "It's not a mind-reading spell or an NSA spying device. You have to trigger it for it to work," Lucy assured me.

  I still wasn't sold. "But you can just shout at me whenever you want, right? I can't control incoming messages."

  "We've agreed to strict rules about that," Lucy explained. "The spell is only used while in the field or during life-threatening emergencies. Let me explain it another way," Lucy said, becoming very serious. "I won't risk going on a mission with you – not even something as low profile as a recruiting run – if you don't let me try."

  Was I being irrational? I wanted to learn everything I could. I wanted the Society to trust me completely so that I could gut them from the inside – well, the bad parts anywa
y – and take my life back. It seemed like a stupid magic tattoo was a small price to pay.

  "Okay," I said. "But I don't think it's going to work."

  Lucy had me lie back on one of the sofas, Wyatt watched over Lucy's shoulder.

  "Don't crowd me and stay out of my light," Lucy said to Wyatt. "Okay, here we go. Orson, you need to keep very still."

  Yeah, I thought. I wouldn't want to move and have your magic Ginsu knife slice my ear off.

  You must not allow this defiling act to occur.

  Well, look who decide to chime in. It's too late, the decision is made. Now don't distract me. I'm concentrating on being still.

  You willingly allow the witch to harm us.

  Not harm, enhance – with a super-duper magic walkie-talkie.

  Fool.

  Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot, blah, blah, blah. Now, pipe down.

  The instant Lucy's blade penetrated my aura; I could feel a strange throbbing sensation around my ear.

  "I can feel the hole you created. It's weird," I said through gritted teeth, trying not to move my jaw.

  "Stop talking," Lucy commanded. "I've opened up about a two inch diameter circle, but your aura is fighting me. It doesn't want to stay open."

  "Of course not. It's defending me against what it thinks is an attack—"

  "Shush," said Lucy. "Can you help? Maybe focus on the spot . . . and . . . I don't know . . . force it to stay open or something."

  I didn't know if that was possible. I turned my senses inward, letting them flow through the magic energy that swirled in and out of my body. There. I found the weak point that Lucy's knife had created. I focused on that spot. I could sense the strings of energy, how they strained to knit themselves back together, and I nudged them with my awareness.

  "Whatever you're doing is working. Keep it up," Lucy encouraged.

  The problem was that I had no idea what I was doing, so I continued to nudge and did my best to project my desired intention to the energy that infused my aura.

  "Almost done," Lucy whispered.

  "It's totally working," Wyatt agreed.

  The pressure of Lucy's knife disappeared from under my ear and she sat back.

  "Okay," she said. "How do you feel?"

  I sat up and rubbed at the spot she'd tattooed. "Do you have a mirror so I can check it out?"

  "It's invisible, dude. There's nothing to see," said Wyatt.

  "Oh yeah, right," I said, continuing to absently massage my skin. "It's kind of tingly," I said.

  "I think that's just your natural defenses trying to overpower the spell," said Lucy. "These comm spells aren't permanent. Even mine and Wyatt's burn out after a time and have to be recharged. Yours will probably have even a shorter lifespan."

  Wyatt jumped up. "I'll go to the training room so we can test it out." He blinked away.

  A moment later, Wyatt's voice filled my head. "Orson? Testing, one, two, three . . . can you hear me?"

  "Whoa, that's a strange sensation," I said.

  "You can hear him?" Lucy asked.

  "Yeah, can't you?"

  "Not if he only triggered the spell with one finger. It's one finger for person-to-person communication, two fingers for a group call."

  I touched the spot under my right ear where Lucy had spelled me. "Wyatt, I can hear you."

  "Awesome!" Wyatt's voice boomed inside my head.

  "Dang, is there a volume control?" I asked Lucy.

  Lucy placed two fingers under her ear and said, "Wyatt, remember: no shouting."

  Wyatt's voice in my head was weird, but Lucy's speaking was super weird. Because she was sitting right next to me, I could hear her words and then hear a delayed echo of what she said in my head.

  "Alright," I said. "I'm officially geared up. What now?"

  "We hit the road," said Lucy. "I'll pick you up bright and early tomorrow morning."

  CHAPTER 2

  "I can't believe this crap," Jimmy Tobin screamed to the interior of his empty car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel a couple of times for emphasis.

  How could Professor Vicks give him a 'B' on his research paper? Jimmy knew without a doubt that he was the smartest person in her Social Science class.

  Science? What a joke, calling something as touchy feely as Gender Dynamics in the Workplace science, but that's what academics like Professor Vicks demanded it be called. As if the soft sciences were in the same league as astronomy, chemistry, and physics. And then they – the so-called scientists – had the temerity to judge Jimmy's ability to understand and expound on these simple disciplines.

  It was outrageous.

  A tap on the glass of his passenger-side window made him jump.

  "Are you okay?" a muffled voice asked.

  What fresh hell was this?

  Jimmy glanced over, prepared to dismiss the intrusion and there she stood, peering in the window.

  Maddie.

  Madison Sinclair.

  The tawny-haired goddess who fueled many of Jimmy's lust-filled fantasies.

  "Jimmy? Are you alright?" Maddie asked through the closed window.

  Jimmy fumbled to get the window down. Why do I have to be such an unsmooth, ridiculous idiot? he thought to himself.

  "Hi, Maddie. I'm good. Just a bit frustrated . . . uh . . . how are you?"

  "I'm great, thanks," Maddie smiled at him. "You're sure you're good? Because you were beating your steering wheel like it owed you money or something."

  How can a person be so beautiful? Jimmy asked himself for the millionth time? Thick, shiny, hair, smooth skin, large green eyes, and a body that, from Jimmy's estimation, was a combination of the right height and weight according to the body mass index.

  She was perfect.

  "Jimmy?" Maddie prompted.

  Oh crap. He had been staring, mouth hanging open, just like the idiot he knew he was. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

  "Yeah. Sorry. I'm having one of those days, that's all," said Jimmy.

  "Okay. Well, I hope it gets better." And then she was gone.

  Jimmy watched her walk away. She rejoined a group waiting for her on the walkway between the Student Center and the English building. There was a burst of laughter as the group moved away. They're probably laughing at me, Jimmy thought. The loser sitting in his car throwing a tantrum.

  Jimmy didn't get it. It was 2018, and nerds had taken over the world. Zuckerberg, Musk, Bezos: they all ran companies that ruled the world. Google, Facebook, Amazon: there wasn't an area of modern life that they didn't have their fingers in, in some way.

  So, Jimmy wasn't in a frat, he didn't play an organized sport, and he wasn't into extreme sports, but he was smart – very, very smart. Jimmy was also pretty sure he wasn't ugly. He didn't have any deformities or odd facial features. He fell within the twenty-four percent of people who had light brown hair and the fifty percent of people who had brown eyes. And, according to the Internet, he was the average height for an American male. Jimmy wouldn't stand out in a crowd, but that should be considered a plus: his averageness meant he was much less likely to be one of those high-maintenance people who demanded too much from a romantic partner.

  Of course, Professor Vicks's assessment of his research paper would seem to counter his assertion that he was smart, but she was a soft science hack. She probably saw it as her feminist duty to attack the work of white male students, especially those who could run intellectual circles around her and any other student majoring in social science.

  Jimmy had only enrolled in her stupid class in an attempt to try to understand the female brain. He figured that if he could gain some insights, then maybe he could finally have some success in dating. The big lie of college life was that dating, or hook-ups, or whatever it was called this week, was easy. There were even multiple apps whose entire business model was based on this idea.

  Jimmy's phone reminded him that it was time for Chemistry. He took a few deep breaths, tossed the research paper with the offending red 'B' into the back seat, and
left the refuge of his car.

  Jimmy enjoyed chemistry. He found its math-based certainty soothing. Also, his lab partner was a great wealth of knowledge when it came to women. She called herself Black Dahlia. No fooling: that's the way she'd introduced herself the first day of class, with not a hint of humor on her face. At first, Jimmy was upset that he got stuck with a weird looking chick, with gobs of eye makeup, a nose piercing, and about a million jangly bracelets on her wrists. But, as it turned out, Dahlia was the smartest person in class. Well, beside himself, of course. And even better, Dahlia was into girls, so Jimmy used her as his own knowledge base on what women wanted and how he could be more successful in his many interactions with the opposite sex.

  "Hey there, Jimbo. How's life treating you today?" Dahlia asked, as Jimmy plopped down next to her.

  "Not great."

  "So, normal then." It wasn't a question.

  "I . . . it's just . . . I just don't understand you females," Jimmy blurted out.

  Dahlia's eyes narrowed, "We females, Jimbo, don't like to be referred to as females. We're people. We just have different plumbing."

  "You know what I mean," Jimmy said, exasperated.

  "Yes I do, but some other young, pretty coed might not understand your quirky personality and take offense."

  Jimmy nodded. "I'm desperate, Dahlia. I'm a sophomore and I've never even had a real date. Just group things, and even then I'm hopeless."

  "Keep your pants on, dude." Dahlia patted his arm. "Tell Dahlia what happened and we'll see what we can do to fix it."

  Jimmy related his latest interaction with Maddie, including the way she and her friends had laughed as they walked away. Dahlia listened without interrupting.

  "So, what do you think?" Jimmy asked as he finished his tale.

  Dahlia was silent for a moment and then said, "I don't think you need to worry about the laugh, Jimbo. Everything is not about you." She made sure to catch his eye and waited for him to nod in agreement.