Some Practical Magic

by Laurie C. Kuna

  “We’ll help you,” the old witch added, and the other two nodded.

  Cassie bobbed her head, her throat too tight to allow a verbal response. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and concentrated all her love on Mick.

  MICK’S BIGGEST CRAZED fan had changed from his dark business suit to surgical scrubs. That fact raised the hair on Mick’s nape, but he didn’t allow his fear to manifest itself in physical tension. Supremely confident, the man stood in the doorway, a slight smile on his face. Since he was of average height and slight build, Mick had to assume that the bastard’s amazing strength came from the fact that he was pure evil incarnate. He’d fought like a man possessed, and Mick was just starting to feel the bruises from their encounter at the hotel. If he lived through this, he imagined he’d be incredibly sore in a couple days.

  Having decided to approach what was coming the same way he’d prepared for a hockey game, Mick lifted the corners of his mouth in a slight smile that perfectly matched his enemy’s expression. A deep breath steadied his nerves, and he pictured himself playing his very best. In this case, he pictured himself at the top of his writing game, his most erudite and glib phrases ready to spring from his mouth instead of from his fingers onto a manuscript page. Losing a hockey game never had fatal consequences. Here, failure was not an option.

  “Awake at last, I see, Mr. Kazimer. I assure you, very soon you’ll wish you were still sleeping.”

  Fifteen

  THE KILLER’S RATHER high-pitched voice surprised Mick. Was he gay, or was that just a far too cliched stereotype that wouldn’t provide insight into the man who had killed to impress him?

  Focus, Sandor. No fear. You’re on top of your game. Despite his mental pep talk, he cleared his throat before saying, “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  The man stopped an arm’s length from the table. Close enough for Mick to see the fanatical light of insanity burning in his dark eyes.

  “My name is unimportant.”

  Get him talking, Mick commanded himself. Get him talking, then keep him talking. “It’s certainly important to me. I’d really like to know the identity of my biggest fan.”

  The man’s entire body went rigid. “Why do you say that?”

  Keep him talking. “Only the person who knows more about my writing than anyone else in the world could do what you’ve done.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He raised his right hand, and Mick saw he clutched a lethal-looking scalpel.

  Shit. After sending up a quick mental prayer to St. Jude, Mick forced himself to say nonchalantly, “I have to have something to call you. ‘Biggest Fan’ somehow sounds sarcastic, don’t you think? Just plain ‘Fan’ doesn’t accurately describe your status. ‘Big’ sounds like a rapper, and ‘BF’ is out of the question for lots of reasons.”

  “You don’t need to know my name.”

  “Of course I do. I love knowing who my fans are. And, let’s face it, you’re a genius, and geniuses are great to know. No need to be modest. Lots of people are familiar with your work.”

  The hand holding the scalpel jerked convulsively.

  “I think you’re the only person who could have pulled off what you have,” Mick hastened to say, eyes riveted on the shiny blade. “All the planning, laying the groundwork. Only a true genius—only you—could be capable of that.”

  A smile curled the killer’s lips as he pulled up a high stool and sat down next to the table. Then he began to roll the scalpel handle slowly between his palms, and Mick felt himself sweating a river.

  It took all his self-control to maintain a conversational tone. “However did you manage it?”

  “I simply followed your blueprint.”

  The chillingly calm tone in which those words were spoken was somehow more frightening than if they had been screamed from a frothing mouth. Mick dug deep within himself to find the courage to say, “You made fact out of fiction. That was none of my doing. It was all yours.” And you’re going to burn in hell for it, too, you bastard. Anger abruptly began to drive out fear, and Mick’s mind sharpened. “So what do you say, ‘Biggest Fan’? What’s your real name.”

  “Fred White.”

  “Really? Got any relatives in the Detroit area, Fred? I went to school with quite a few Whites—”

  White leapt to his feet, sending the stool crashing to the floor. “Shut up! Shut up!” He raised his left hand to his head and grasped a handful of sandy-colored hair, then stalked away from the edge of the table.

  The explosion of insanity Mick feared he’d triggered manifested itself in a far more sinister way than merely a sustained rant. By the time he’d crossed the room twice, White’s frantic pacing had slowed to a controlled walk. Holding the scalpel with the blade down, he approached Mick’s side again, and when he raised his eyes, Mick almost gasped. The nearly black orbs looked like obsidian. The evil, obsidian eyes of a mindless killing machine.

  The clock had almost run out.

  “DORA, DID YOU find him?” Cassie emerged on the dark street near the ruins of the amusement park just as Endora transformed herself back to human form.

  “Just got here.” She tilted her head. “My guess is they’re in an underground room, though.”

  “This way.” Medusa indicated a set of steps off to the right. “I sense a great evil very close by.” She turned to the eldest witch. “Millicent, would you put a containment spell on this area?”

  The old witch’s smile was just a bit smug. “I did before we left the Quarter. Right after Cassie cast her protection spell.”

  “Excellent.” Medusa turned to Cassie. “Do you want us to come with you?”

  She nodded. “Backup only, though.”

  “It’s your show, Daughter.”

  “YOU STOPPED WRITING,” White said, his calm tone terrifying in its detached simplicity. He tested the edge of the scalpel with his thumb. A drop of blood beaded where he’d touched the blade to his skin. “I worshiped you. Patterned all my killings after those in your books. Made my life’s work a testimony to your writing brilliance. And then you stopped writing.” He raised the scalpel and brought it down into Mick’s right thigh. “Now you must die for betraying me.”

  Adrenaline prevented the searing pain from racing immediately to Mick’s brain, giving him time to stifle the scream that clawed upward from his chest. As it was, his breath hissed through his teeth as he fought to keep his stomach from emptying. To keep from crying out in pain.

  White pulled the blade from Mick’s leg, went to the stand beside the operating table, and calmly wiped it clean on a white towel. Then he turned back, sneering. “So, the great M. S. Kazimer can control his reaction to pain,” he said softly. “Well done.” He tilted the blade to study it in the glare of artificial lights. “I assure you, however, before you die, you’ll scream like all the rest. Beg to die like every last one of them.”

  Although he couldn’t control the trembling of his leg, Mick kept a cool head. He wasn’t about to let White torture him. His chances of escape dimming, he decided to go out with a bang. To see if he could inflict some pain of his own. “You know why I quit writing, you pathetic bastard?” he taunted. “Because of you.”

  White whirled around, scalpel again at the ready.

  “That’s right, Freddie Boy.” Mick put every ounce of contempt he could muster into his words. “I got tired of carrying your stupid, sorry ass. Tired of giving you step-by-step killing instructions. So I quit writing. It’s high time you stop copycatting and do something original.”

  White’s eyes blazed, and he moved back to the table. “I am original. I’m a genius. You said so yourself.”

  “Genius?” Mick snorted. “You’re an unimaginative thrall who can’t think of a novel way to off someone. Instead
, you stole my ideas.”

  “I did it to honor you!”

  “You did it because you’re a nobody who wanted to be somebody.”

  “No!”

  The blade slashed across this time, opening a six-inch long wound in Mick’s thigh and wrenching a moan from his lips. He noted dispassionately that, although his leg bled profusely, the lack of a pulsing spray indicated White hadn’t hit an artery. Somehow, that didn’t make him feel any better about his chances. In fact, he figured that was his captor’s goal all along.

  Mick fought to control his panting breaths as he gasped out, “Describe one murder you committed that wasn’t patterned after my books.” A sneer curled his lips. “You can’t, can you, Freddie Boy?”

  “I worshiped you!”

  White raised the blade and slashed again.

  Mick saw the path of the scalpel was headed toward his chest, and he braced for what would most likely be a killing blow. I love you, Cassie.

  The blade had traveled only a few inches in its downward arc when, suddenly, a shimmering light surrounded Mick. The scalpel point struck the light and slid harmlessly away.

  “What the—” Only momentarily distracted, White struck again. Again the blade was deflected. With a guttural cry, he raised his hand again and again, slashing repeatedly in a frenzy of hacking blows. None of them came anywhere near hitting his target. The blade snapped in half, and he threw it aside, replacing it with beating fists that were likewise deflected.

  “How is this possible?” he screamed, cool demeanor melting into total panic. “Not again. It can’t be!”

  Eyes rolling in his head, spittle at the corners of his mouth, White raced to the exit door. Throwing it open, he managed to ascend only two steps past the doorframe before being hurled back into the room. He landed flat on his back beside the table where Mick lay.

  “I guess it can be,” Mick said through clenched teeth.

  No words could describe his feelings when he realized White could neither escape nor kill him. That someone was protecting him. Dared he hope that someone was Cassie? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please make it so.

  Knowing the impossibility of success, Mick nonetheless strained to loosen the bonds on his wrists and ankles. The effort only made the bleeding worse.

  “Dammit.” He’d have to sit there and leak blood until help arrived. Which, if the growing pool of red under his leg was any indication, needed to be soon.

  White made to scramble to his feet.

  “I think I’d stay right where I was if I were you, Fred.”

  “Betrayer!” White launched himself at Mick only to again meet the invisible barrier.

  “Slow learner,” Mick retorted.

  The rebound from this encounter with the force field threw White to the floor. Scrambling across the concrete on hands and knees, he grabbed the broken scalpel blade and rose in a half-crouch to stare wild-eyed at Mick. Then he slashed his own throat.

  “I loved you,” he gasped as blood gurgled from his lips. He fell face-first to the floor.

  “Mick!” Cassie burst through the door, Endora and Medusa close on her heels, and flew across the room to his side.

  “Cassie! Ohmigod, Baby, are you all right?”

  Cassie’s enthusiastic kiss answered that question for him. “We came as soon as we could,” she explained, pulling back.

  “Just in time, believe me.” Mick planted a quick smack on her lips.

  Ignoring the two love birds, Endora knelt beside White’s prone form. “He’s almost crossed over. Should I bring him back?”

  Cassie’s gaze met Mick’s. “Your call.”

  He swallowed hard. Was he being judge, jury and executioner? He glanced at the man who had performed so much evil in the name of love. So many deaths. So much devastation.

  “Let the bastard go,” he answered quietly. “He should pay for his crimes, but maybe it’s best he killed himself. His evil is expunged from the world, not locked away where it could even remotely infect others.”

  Suddenly, Cassie looked down. “You’re bleeding.”

  “He managed to get in a couple licks before your barrier kicked in.” At Cassie’s guilty look, he quickly added, “Hey, the cuts don’t even hurt.”

  “Liar.” She gripped Mick’s wounded leg with both hands, closed her eyes, and gently squeezed.

  “Ouch!”

  She didn’t even open her eyes to look at him. “Quit being a baby, and sit still.”

  “Oh, so I go from a brave liar to a baby,” Mick groused. “So much for tender loving care.”

  It was a sham complaint. Soothing heat had permeated his wound the moment Cassie touched him, and the bleeding soon stopped, along with the pain.

  As Cassie worked, Endora freed Mick’s arms and legs.

  Medusa moved to the center of the room. The master witch closed her eyes and tilted her chin upward, raised her hands palms up and began a low chant. The light in the dim room brightened until its intensity resembled sunshine in a midday desert. White light permeated every corner and crevice—driving out all vestiges of the dark evil that had been there—then faded to the original glow of the artificial lights.

  “I sent his soul to the light,” Medusa said simply.

  Endora bristled, snapping, “After all he did, he deserved eternal damnation.”

  “It’s not our place to decide, Dora. We—”

  The sound of pounding feet on the stairs interrupted. A split-second later, Jamison and his agents burst through the doorway, guns drawn.

  “You’re too late, Robert.” Mick, now sitting with his feet dangling over the side of the table, found he couldn’t take his arm from around Cassie’s waist. With his free hand, he indicated White. “Meet Fred White, serial killer. Fred took the coward’s way out.”

  Jamison looked down at the scalpel still in White’s hand, then glanced around at the group. “Sure he didn’t have help?”

  “You can check the blade for fingerprints, but you’ll find only his,” Medusa stated regally.

  “No doubt.”

  The older witch crossed her arms over her chest and gave Robert her haughtiest stare. “I assure you, Special Agent Jamison, we would not have let him die so easily had we been involved—.”

  “—Point taken.” Jamison turned to his agents. “Call in the name Fred White. Have O’Brien process the body, then all of you get back to base. I’m going to escort Mr. Kazimer and his party there myself.” The look he gave Cassie, Endora and Medusa dared them to suggest they’d return to the hotel in any manner other than via a government vehicle. Then he looked at the torn leg of Mick’s slacks and the blood on the operating table. “Need to go to Emergency, Sandor?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Mick said, grinning. “Why do you ask?”

  The agent only gritted his teeth in response.

  “I’LL CALL YOU when I get home, Mother.” Cassie stepped back from hugging Medusa and turned to embrace the others who had helped rescue Mick.

  The group stood in the living area of Mick’s hotel suite as dawn was breaking over New Orleans.

  Medusa gave an uncomfortable-looking Endora a quick hug, then turned to Mick. “Still want to join the family?”

  “Absolutely.” With a grin, he wrapped his future mother-in-law in a gentle bear hug and squeezed. “I can’t wait to break out the whoopie cushion at the first reunion.”

  Medusa swatted him on the shoulder and then kissed his chin. “I must warn you, dear boy, that you’re about to enter the Big Leagues. Witch practical jokes are very sophisticated and complex. A mere whoopie cushion won’t compete.”

  “I sense a challenge here.” Mick bussed her on the cheek, and then, cinching Cassie around the waist with his arm, turned to Medusa’s friends. “I can’t thank you all enough for your help. You literall
y saved our lives. Please come and visit Cassie and me any time.”

  Millicent stepped forward, a twinkle in her ancient black eyes. “I have a favor to ask you, young man.”

  “Mick, please.”

  With a smile, she produced a copy of Mortal Sin. “I’m a huge fan. Have read every single word you ever published. Would you autograph this for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Mick took the book and the pen Millicent offered with it. “Do you want this signed to anyone in particular?”

  “Madigan.” She spelled it for Mick. “My husband. He’s read all of your titles, too.”

  Cassie wrapped her arm around Mick’s shoulders as he handed the book back. “Be sure to tell Madigan this is a special edition. The last autograph M. S. Kazimer will ever give.”

  The tall witch cocked her eyebrow. “You’re really retiring from writing?”

  “Probably not for good,” Mick stated quietly. “But there will definitely never be another title penned by M. S. Kazimer.”

  “Too bad,” Millicent said. “You’re great at spinning a tale of mayhem.”

  Mick and Cassie shared a look. “Unfortunately, some people couldn’t just see them as that—tales. One made fiction a reality. It’s time for me to move on to other challenges.”

  “Like honing your practical joking skills.” Medusa linked arms with Cassie and then gave her a quick kiss. “There’s a big voodoo function in the Quarter tonight. Want to come?”

  “Tonight?” Cassie glanced out the window of the hotel suite. “Mother, it’s practically dawn, and I haven’t slept in a day and a half.”

  “Well, you’ve got until midnight to catch up.” Medusa glanced over at Endora. “Dora, you up for partying?”

  The familiar shook her head. “My boss is a slave driver. I have to work.”

  “Dora, you do not!”

  “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.” Endora nodded to the room’s other occupants as she moved to the suite door. “See you around.”