Power Mage 5

by Hondo Jinx

  So why mention it at all? Why half-announce a cryptic initiative if they weren’t ready to provide pertinent details?

  Simple. Because Janusian, the old master showman, wanted to build buzz.

  And now the Latticework was buzzing like a kicked beehive.

  When Jamaal returned his full attention to his immediate surroundings, the broadcast was over, the fuggles at the bar were bitching over a bad call, and Krupski was offering to buy him another beer.

  “No thanks, kid,” Jamaal said. “I gotta get home.”

  Krupski laughed, “Aw, stick around a while. Drop some grandfatherly wisdom on me. What do you think Janusian’s talking about with this New Dawn Initiative?”

  Jamaal shook his head. “I have no idea. Probably some kind of reporting system.”

  And no sooner had the words left his mouth than Jamaal realized he believed them. Janusian’s new project involved a reporting system, his gut told him. That and more. Much more.

  He shook off an involuntary shudder.

  “You all right?” Krupski asked, sounding genuinely worried.

  Jamaal nodded. “I’m out of here, kid. Time for this old trooper to limp home.”

  “Sure I can’t give you a ride?”

  “Positive,” Jamaal said, taking a step toward the exit, where a pack of sunburned tourists swayed to the music, blissfully unaware of the world burning around them.

  Who could have known that the soundtrack to the apocalypse would be performed by Jimmy Fucking Buffet?

  “Hey,” Krupski said, holding out a hand. “Thanks for coming out tonight. Really. It means a lot.”

  “Yeah, well… just don’t go making the mistake of thinking I’m happy to have a young punk like you as a partner,” Jamaal said, shaking the young man’s hand.

  Krupski laughed. “No worries there. ‘Night.”

  Jamaal turned to go, but a curious compulsion struck him, and he turned back, fished a twenty from his wallet, and handed the bill to his young partner, who looked stunned.

  “What’s this?”

  “Take it,” Jamaal said. “Get a couple beers on me, kid. You’re all right.”

  Krupski’s whole face lit up. “Hey, man… thanks!”

  “No problem,” Jamaal said, and then called back over his shoulder to save them both a little face. “Don’t let it go to your head!”

  Out on the street among the tourists and hustlers, Jamaal wondered, Now why the hell did I do that?

  The compulsion to do something nice for the kid had come out of nowhere. Same with the compliment.

  He had no clue why.

  An idea he didn’t like whispered from the shady backwaters of his subconscious mind.

  For a second there, he’d felt a degree of urgency… and finality. As if this might be his last chance to set shit square with the young agent.

  What the hell?

  For a Seeker, the implications were alarming.

  Was he going to die? Was Krupski going to die? Were they going to fall out, divided like two brothers on opposite sides of the Civil War, by whatever this New Dawn Initiative turned out to be?

  Like everyone else jacked into the Latticework, Jamaal was blind on Janusian’s cryptic program. But the New Dawn Initiative rumbled like thunder on the far horizon of his perception.

  Turning onto Fleming and hobbling toward home, he replayed Janusian’s announcement in his mind. This time, he could feel waves of smug satisfaction rolling off the Arch Mage.

  Whatever this initiative was, Janusian believed what he was saying, believed he was about to eradicate his enemies forever.

  And that was distressing.

  Because Arch Mage Payter Janusian had neither reached nor maintained power by miscalculation. He was lauded far and wide for his consistency, shrewdness, and uncanny predictions. The Order of Truth, in a humorous moment during the televised celebration of Janusian’s 25th anniversary with the Order, had even presented the famously strategic Arch Mage with an “honorary Seeker” certificate.

  So given the situation and its implications, a smugly satisfied Janusian was troubling.

  Jamaal nibbled at the matter for another half block before getting distracted by a pair of scantily clad women teetering on ridiculous stilettos outside the strip joint across from the bookstore.

  He watched the girls not with desire but with puzzlement.

  What strange lives people led.

  And with that thought, he pushed the New Dawn Initiative from his mind.

  There was nothing more to Seek now. Better to sideline his questions and preserve his juice for more pressing matters.

  He limped on.

  Once he got home, he would eat a slice of cold pizza left over from last night and give Shawna a call.

  He missed his wife. Missed his dog, too. They were part of him now. Nothing felt quite real in their absence.

  But he’d made the right move, sending them away. And today’s false flag terror in Jersey and Janusian’s weird initiative tease only served to further convince him that he’d been right to send them away despite Shawna’s objections.

  His wife seemed happy enough now, whenever they talked, which was generally twice a day and sometimes three, with Jamaal using the heavily cloaked burner Jaz had rigged for him.

  Brawley’s new Gearhead had talent. She’d give the Order’s best a run for their money.

  Shawna was with her sister now out in Western Illinois.

  Jamaal had cloaked Shawna and her family, covered her tracks, and shielded her sister’s home.

  If the shit hit the fan, he wouldn’t have his wife and dog paying the price for his transgressions.

  Shawna knew none of this, of course. She would lose her shit if she suspected the trouble Jamaal was courting, let alone his role in it.

  If something did happen to him—and by “something,” he meant getting his dumb ass killed—a cloak dependent on his continued existence would vanish, revealing the envelope he had hidden in Shawna’s suitcase and activating the pinger he’d placed inside along with several pages of explanation, instruction, a rambling apology, and Jamaal’s profession of undying love.

  His gushing goodbye was totally humiliating and absolutely true. For all his grumbling, he loved that woman with every fiber of his hard, old heart.

  If Shawna followed the instructions, she would be all right. Or as all right as a woman her age could be hiding from the law with only eighty thousand in cash.

  Jamaal didn’t think anyone would put much into chasing her. Not if the prerequisites to her discovering the envelope had already been met.

  Grim but necessary shit.

  He looked forward to hearing his wife’s voice tonight. He didn’t even care if Shawna rambled about her sister’s arthritis or the finer details of days completely alien to him: scrapbooking, gardening, garage sales.

  He didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to hear her voice.

  And he secretly hoped Rosie would bark in the background just so he could hear the Corgi’s voice, too.

  After that, he would set up his doppelganger node, unplug from the Latticework, and get down to his real work.

  For weeks now, he had been living a double life. Senior Agent Whittaker by day; Jamaal the mole by night.

  To help Brawley and the girls, he had destroyed evidence, obscured facts, and provided the Texans with regular reports on the movements of those who sought to do them harm. The psi mob, the psi cartel, and, of course, the Order itself.

  Risky fucking business.

  But he had to do it. For he had seen the truth of Brawley Hayes and was now certain that all those years ago, the final words of Sarah Heath—or “Ms. Heath,” as Janusian insisted on calling her—had, in fact, been accurate prophecy.

  He will come for you.

  Brawley was the he to whom Sarah had been referring.

  Even now, limping out Fleming in long pants and a blazer that was way too hot, Jamaal felt a chill.

  Brawley and the Order were hurtling
toward a head-on collision that would change everything forever.

  Brawley or Janusian would survive. One or the other. But not both.

  Again, Jamaal swept gnawing concerns from his mind, focusing instead on the things he’d tell his wife.

  He would gloat over the low utility bills he’d just received and lie about his eating, telling her that he’d been packing in square meals and gaining back some of the weight he’d recently lost.

  He would not mention the sciatica that had returned upon his homecoming. And if Shawna asked specifically, he would redirect her with an update about the neighbors’ ugly-ass bottle art sculptures. She would groan when she heard about—

  “Seven, seven, seven!” a bearded giant shouted, rising from the bushes in front of the library.

  “The hell, Bodie?” Jamaal said, recognizing the insane homeless Chaotic whose beard was crawling with bugs as usual. “You startled the shit out of me, you crazy bastard.”

  “The Redeemer rises as Chaos and Order collide,” Bodie ranted, sounding like a fire-and-brimstone preacher, “while high in the sky the albino tiger opens his eyes and sees…”

  Bodie leveled a filthy finger in Jamaal’s direction, “You.”

  Jamaal jerked to a stop, heart hammering, then hurried on down the street, limping like crazy and not giving a damn.

  What the hell had that been?

  For years, Bodie had been spouting crazy conspiracy theories and half-baked prophecies.

  But this time, Bodie’s words had nailed Jamaal right between the eyes.

  Because they rang of truth.

  Relax, he told himself, and took comfort in the silence of his Seeker senses.

  He was just feeling paranoid. Understandably so, given his circumstances.

  And he could do nothing to change those circumstances. Not now, not yet. He was in this thing. All in.

  He was an outlaw now. The world just didn’t know that yet. And with a little luck and a lot of caution, they would never find out.

  You, Bodie’s voice echoed unpleasantly.

  All Jamaal could do was keep pushing forward.

  That’s the hell of transgression. By transgressing, you enter the Land of Transgression, a territory filled by transgressors, a hell you can escape only through further transgression.

  Such were the thoughts of Jamaal’s disturbed mind as he approached his home, practically aching now to hear his wife’s voice.

  And damn it, if Rosie didn’t bark, he’d just tell Shawna to rile the Corgi up, even if that resulted in Shawna calling him an old softie.

  But as Jamaal entered his block, a twinge of dread shelved all thoughts of his family. Stopping in his tracks, he analyzed the faint yet persistent unease.

  It was coming from down the block.

  From his house.

  His hand fell unconsciously to his sidearm.

  Releasing a trickle of juice, he scanned the area.

  Nothing.

  Only that whisper of menace, like the panting of predator just out of sight.

  Something wrong…

  A threat…

  To him?

  Yes.

  When another scan turned up empty, he rapidly cycled through his psi sensors, hunting for clues to the disturbance.

  First, he checked the dozen sensors he’d spread throughout his home. Everything was dim and still. Plenty of shadows but no silhouettes.

  Next, he checked the Dutchman feeds in case the dead man’s successors might be up to something. The capo’s home and bar and wharf house were shuttered up. His boat bobbed at anchor, empty as a ghost ship.

  He checked on Remi, who was pacing back and forth in the RV as it roared on down the highway. Brawley and his women had already reunited with the Scars and were racing toward the dangerous mission awaiting them in the Great Smoky Mountains.

  He rapidly shuttled through other sensors, glimpsing his office, Krupski’s apartment, the bars Xander Mack tended to haunt, and the bungalow where Jamaal had hidden Xander’s ex-wife and son.

  Nothing. No clues whatsoever.

  The menace continued to growl softly, growing no stronger as he approached his home.

  Still, no reason to be stupid about it. He wouldn’t just waltz through the front door.

  Drawing his sidearm, Jamaal cut through Shawna’s flowers and peered into the kitchen. He saw no one and sensed nothing.

  But the dread remained, holding the same low note.

  Creeping alongside his home, Jamaal peered into each window, pausing to listen and Seek… all to no avail.

  Reaching the high privacy fence that enclosed his tiny backyard, he tiptoed to the gate and paused there, holding his breath and listening with his ears and his mind.

  Nothing but that same whisper of unease, as faint and shrill as the cry of a distant hawk.

  Well, don’t just stand here with your piece out, he thought. A neighbor will call 911 about the crazy old man next door walking around with a pistol, and you’ll spend the next hour trying to unfuck things with Fuggle PD.

  Lifting the latch slowly, Jamaal popped the gate open and swept his sidearm across the pool, ready to fire.

  “Don’t shoot,” the reclining man said from the poolside lounge. His voice was calm and tinged with amusement. He did not raise his hands, which gripped a rattan cane.

  Pull the trigger! Jamaal’s gut squawked, but he lowered the weapon, released a shuddering breath, and laughed as he entered his backyard, trying to hide his fear by showing his surprise and confusion.

  “Arch Mage Janusian,” Jamaal said, holstering his pistol. “What are you doing here, sir?”

  Janusian rose without smiling. “You and I need to talk, Senior Agent Whittaker.”

  23

  An inferno of pain.

  Alex tried to scream, but her lungs were merely blisters now.

  Blisters full of smoke.

  She lay on her back, unable to move her body.

  And yet there was a sense of movement. Of being moved. Of being propelled through space, away from the Dragon and the burning camp.

  Air rushed over Alex. And oh, how it hurt.

  Everything hurt.

  Every fiber of her body shrieked. The rushing air felt like a river of acid washing over her.

  She didn’t know who was helping her. Couldn’t know. Their faces, their words… these things were lost.

  Because the Dragon had burned her.

  Flames had charred Alex’s flesh and popped her eyes and melted her ears. Now, she was closed off from the world, exiled to a universe of excruciating pain.

  The rushing wind stopped. The cart stopped. Alex stopped.

  The voices she could not understand spoke rapidly now.

  A shudder. A sinking sensation.

  An elevator?

  Alex jarred to a painful stop. Then she was moving again, sizzling through the burning air.

  Let me die. Let it be over. Let me die.

  A short time later, she stopped again.

  She was aware of muted voices but couldn’t make out any words.

  Then, suddenly, everything sliced away.

  An instant later, she regained consciousness, surfacing once more in the dark lake of fire.

  No. No more. Please. Please just let me die.

  But then a woman’s voice cut through her consciousness, speaking with all the clarity and authority of an angelic herald.

  Alex, stop screaming.

  Alex stopped screaming. She hadn’t even realized that she had been screaming.

  This realization reminded her that she had a throat.

  Oh, how it hurt!

  Stop screaming, the voice said again. The pain will soon be gone.

  Yeah, right, Alex thought, orbiting agony on a white-hot elliptic. I am pain. Nothing more. Just pain.

  But the voice said, The pain is fading.

  And suddenly, Alex felt a slight ebbing away of the agony.

  Fading, the voice said.

  And yes, the pain was d
imming. Down and down and down until Alex stopped wishing for death and wished only that the pain might continue to fade.

  See? Your pain is gone, Alex.

  And just like that, the agony vanished. Not even a whisper of pain remained.

  Which was weird and honestly alarming. Alex tried to say so, but the voice stopped her, saying, Use your mind, Alex. Your body is damaged now. Damaged and repairing. Save your energy for recovery. Focus your thoughts. Deliver them as you would deliver spoken words.

  That’s when Alex understood why this voice was so clear while all the others had been muted by her melted ears.

  This soothing, blissfully clear voice wasn’t coming through her ears; the unseen speaker was communicating directly with Alex’s mind.

  Telepathy, Alex thought. Fuck me. She’s using telepathy.

  Yes, the woman’s voice responded. I am using telepathy. I am hearing your thoughts, and you are hearing mine. We are conversing.

  Am I going to die? Alex’s mind squawked.

  No.

  And the woman’s voice was so strong, so confident, that Alex would have wept for joy if she’d had eyes to cry with. Because despite her earlier prayers for death, Alex didn’t want to die.

  Not really. Not at all, in fact. She wanted to live. Had to live. Had to—

  You are feeling calmer now, the woman’s voice explained. Much calmer.

  Yes, Alex said, as a shroud of relief enveloped her.

  I regret not bringing you here sooner. I have been absent for some time, engaged in vital matters that I cannot explain. Attempting to do so would only serve to further confuse you.

  Okay, Alex thought. That’s okay.

  She felt a surge of gratitude toward this woman and her soothing, authoritative voice.

  Alex wondered briefly if Lars was all right. But how could he be? He had shielded her from the flames, had burned to protect her.

  Lars is very durable, the woman said, apparently reading even Alex’s private thoughts. He might surprise you.

  Good, Alex thought, with a surge of cautious optimism. I hope so. I really hope so. He was so brave. He—

  Yes, the woman’s voice said. Lars is courageous. I suspect we might see him again. All the more reason to pull yourself together, yes? Nothing would make Lars happier than to know his heroic actions resulted in your rescue.