John remembered the layout of the theatre from his past visits, knew exactly where to find the back exit, where the talent would usually emerge. Steve gave up asking questions after the first thirty seconds and just followed him (and John probably would not have waited if he had fallen behind). John just had to meet Ulysses the Unbelievable, to talk with him, to get just the slightest hint of ... something to explain what he had seen with that damned bottle!
Hustling through the evening twilight, John released a very unmacho squeak of disappointment when he rounded the back corner and saw that, not only had Ulysses already exited the theatre, he was striding away from them at a brisk walk. He carried nothing with him, no rolling case of supplies, not even a briefcase. And he wasn’t heading toward the parking lot, but crossing a small side street toward an alleyway between the neighboring buildings.
“Wait!” John cried as he broke into a sprint, desperate to catch up with the illusionist. “Wait, please!”
Ulysses didn’t exactly glance back, but he did turn his head in profile, suggesting that he had heard John. Instead of stopping, however, he looked forward again and picked up his own pace.
“Please, wait!” John called, running faster.
“John, you wait up, damn it!” He heard his brother, but like Ulysses, he chose not to look back, just kept going, eyes only for his target.
Ulysses entered the alleyway and disappeared into the shadows.
Come on, John, whispered the growing voice that was maturity, and a sense of peril. You aren’t really going to chase a strange man into a dark alley with only your baby brother to save you. You’re smarter than that.
He did slow his pace, just a little, as he crossed the narrow street, but that was all the caution he was willing to indulge.
“John!” Steve shouted again, nearer this time, having closed the gap between them.
Thanks to the evening’s gloom, John didn’t have to wait long for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness between the buildings. He spotted Ulysses almost at once; the bald man had stepped up onto the back entrance of the building on the right, the alcove almost but not quite hiding him from view.
Seeing that his quarry had finally stopped — he didn’t know why, and he didn’t care — John slowed further and gasped for breath. “Sir ... please, I ...”
Ulysses looked at him, glanced over John’s shoulder (presumably at Steve), then returned his gaze. And he smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, nor was it especially pleasant; it was more of a smirk, falling somewhere between humor and ... what? John wasn’t sure.
Ulysses lifted one hand, twiddled his fingers in a farewell wave, then twisted his wrist around to wave at himself. He stated, “Subcinctinin” ... and then he was gone.
John cried out, stumbling backward so that Steve nearly ran into him.
“John, what the hell?” Steve grumbled, not even out of breath. “What was that all about?”
John didn’t answer. His startlement at Ulysses’ vanishing faded as his analytical mind took over: He had wanted to ask about the bottle, because he had never seen that particular trick before ... but a disappearing act? That was old hat for John Davison. If Harry Houdini could make an elephant disappear, how impressive could it be, really, for Ulysses to drop from sight?
... even if it was the smoothest execution John had ever seen, as Ulysses had never broken their direct line of sight, had not passed behind or through anything, had simply been standing there and a heartbeat later he was gone ...
And so John spent the next half-hour studying every angle of the alcove, the door (which appeared to be locked solid from the inside and chained from the outside), the steps leading up to it, and then the alleyway itself. Steve tried talking to him several times, but after John’s third or fourth monosyllabic dismissal, his brother sighed and helped him look around — even though he didn’t understand what it was John was looking for, or why. John refused to give up until it started drizzling, and Steve reminded him that their parents would be expecting them home soon. Only then did John, grudgingly, leave the alleyway.
For weeks after that, John blathered about what had happened to anyone who would listen (and even to a few who clearly were not interested). Most thought it was hilarious that John Davison, the premiere illusionist fan/nitpicker, had finally seen a trick that even he couldn’t explain.
They didn’t get it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t explain it ... well, actually it was, but it was more so that he couldn’t even fathom how it was done, especially when he was given unlimited access to the “stage” that was a simple alleyway (which he had revisited three times since, at different times of day, as well as inside the cleaning service that owned the business into which the back entrance led). It was an illusion beyond anything he could imagine, unless ...
Unless he had stumbled across real magic?
That notion both exhilarated and frightened him in a way that stage magicians had never achieved.
He played that particular theory a little closer to the chest, sharing it with only his closest friends and his brother. All of them, even Steve, laughed. He wasn’t serious, right? Had all the magic shows finally shaken his sense of reality? Come on, man! Magic wasn’t real.
Magic wasn’t real. Obviously.
And so, for another week or more, that became his mantra as he tried to dismiss his silly ideas and get back to the real world.
Magic. Wasn’t. Real.
That was that ...
... and then the Night of the White Flash happened. And the Paranormal Effect became undeniable. And to hammer the whole thing home, the newly-formed Paranormal Control Agency came knocking on their dad’s proverbial door, seeking his professional help in dealing with the brand-new superpowered rogue problem.
“Reality,” as humankind perceived it, had taken a sharp left turn. And what was most hammered home for John was that the paranormals proved that the “impossible” could exist — and from John’s renewed, excited point of view, the paranormals could not exist without magic. The White Flash had come from the heavens, so most people looked to an extraterrestrial origin. But to suddenly give random people superpowers? Modern science couldn’t explain that, nor could modern medicine. But if one allowed for the existence of real magic, as far as John was concerned, that could explain a great many things.
“Maybe,” Steve once tried to point out, “you’re putting the cart before the horse? Or the chicken before the egg, or whatever?”
“Huh?” John had glanced up from an article about Ulysses the Unbelievable, one of the few he had been able to find. “What do you mean?”
“I think we’re all a little more open to the idea of magic now,” Steve stressed, “since we’ve got all these potential superheroes running around. But that’s after the White Flash. You thought you saw that Ulysses guy disappear before the Paranormal Effect got started. Don’t you think you’re looking at it a little backwards?”
“Contrary to the theories of Stan Lee,” John countered, his eyes already returning to the article, “radiation, even cosmic radiation, should not create superpowers; if that’s what the White Flash was, a small percentage of us should have cancer, not superhuman gifts. Magic makes more sense than that, since it’s all about bending the laws of reality. Which means magic had to come first.” Then he grinned, just to show he appreciated his brother trying to reason with him about it. “Who needs to start with a chicken or an egg if you’ve got magic?”
Steve kind of nodded, a familiar gesture that suggested I suppose — but actually meant I don’t buy it, but I’m done arguing with you, so I give up — and headed off to his bedroom.
John Davison was a young man on a mission. Yes, he acknowledged the awesome wonder, and dread, of the paranormals who walked among them. But he sought the miracle behind the miracle, the phenomenon that he believed was the true answer to the questions surrounding the White Flash and the Paranormal Effect. If he could track down the source of these earthshaking mysteries, it would prove th
e ultimate in killing two birds with one stone — or, put in less morbid fashion, embracing the best of both worlds.
He soon determined that modern media wasn’t going to help much; all he could find were standard fluff pieces (and it was salt in the wound that Ulysses never returned to perform at any local venues), and a general Internet search for “real magicians” was too broad a net to cast for his purpose. With college looming in his near future, he decided to major in History, with an emphasis on Ancient and Medieval History. He understood that the class curriculum itself would do little for his pursuit, but it might grant him access to rare books that he would otherwise never discover on his own. It was worth a shot, and it wasn’t as though he had ever settled on any other major (in that respect, he and Steve were two peas in a pod).
High school graduation passed, college began, and John attacked his classes with a vengeance. By the end of his freshman year, he had very little to show for his private efforts, but he appreciated every tidbit he could scrape together. This prompted a switch in majors, from History to Literature, with an emphasis on Rare Classics; the latter led to his developing some contacts in the collectors’ world — a few of which he even used for his class work.
He got chummy with some of the more eccentric collectors, and thanks to the Internet, that group spanned the globe. These connections led to some whispered gossip, gossip led to rumors ...
... and those rumors eventually led to the precious, expensive tome which he held in his hands tonight, the book which had sapped his next semester’s tuition money, which was leading to the coming storm when his parents find out.
It was totally worth it.
Opening the book with gentle fingers, John turned to the only page he had marked with a soft, thin strip of ribbon. Midway down the page awaited the word which had convinced him to purchase the book at all cost, figurative and literal. The only word which he was certain he knew how to speak with the proper pronunciation, surrounded as it was by so many terms in that mysterious, probably dead language, because he had heard it spoken aloud by Ulysses the Unbelievable: Subcinctinin.
Oh, he had some ideas about other terms contained therein; his personal studies had taught him that much. But knowing how to actually incant them was another story. He had a good feeling about one or two others, but this one he knew how to say, and even had some solid leads on what it meant, both from his studies and the context of his initial experience: Subcinctinin meant “shift,” or more literally, “transfer” or “move elsewhere.”
Relaxing upon his bed, John whispered the word, “Subcinctinin,” over and over, until he fell asleep ...
PCA
John jolted awake to the loudest thunder he had ever heard in his life.
Bolting upright, his thoughts fixated in an instant upon the treasured book, which still rested on his lap. Had he actually nodded off without putting it away? Irresponsible! Setting aside its considerable personal and monetary value, the last thing he needed was for his mom or dad or Steve to walk in and—
Another crash of thunder, even louder than the first. Jesus, was the lightning striking right across the street? In their yard?
John glanced toward his window. Hard to be sure from what little light peeked through the closed blinds, but it looked like typical early-morning sun. If a storm were brewing—
Thunder, yet again, this one so intense the water in his drinking glass on the nightstand rippled. If he didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn that one came from inside his own house—
More thunder. And this time, a scream. Aunt Carol? What in the world ...?!
He couldn’t think straight. Between the rude awakening and the incredible noise, he felt addled, disoriented, almost detached. Was this a dream? It felt like it might be ...
Reaching for the book’s cloth cover, he attempted to focus at least that far, to get the book protected—
More thunder and another scream, this one with words, but he couldn’t make them out. Was that his cousin Dan?!
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something horrible was happening, and he needed to get his act together and find out what.
Against his better judgement, he moved the book to his pillow, prepared to leave it aside until—
The next thunder wasn’t quite as deafening as the others, but it wasn’t soft, either. He heard more voices, but he missed those because he was staring at the book.
When that last thunder struck, the words on the open pages had ... pulsed? No, not the words, the page surrounding the words, the paper turning just a little more white than its current aged-yellow.
No, that didn’t make sense. And he didn’t have the luxury of dealing with a trick of the eye right now.
Crossing his bedroom, John reached for his doorknob, then hesitated. He didn’t know what exactly was happening out there, but the screams and yelling — not to mention the goddamn thunder! — did not paint a pretty picture. Should he grab a weapon? He didn’t have a gun, not even the BB variety, but he had an aluminum baseball bat in the closet ...
Then he heard the first distinct words, coming from his dad. “Richard, stop!” his father yelled, pleaded, begged. “No, Richard, please—!”
Then his dad howled in anguish.
Instinct overrode common sense, and John opened the door sans weapon.
Poking his head out just enough to see, he peeked to the left first. He could make out the open doors to his brother’s room and the guest bedroom. Steve’s room looked undisturbed, but a small fire burned in the guest room where his aunt and uncle had slept. And God, what was that horrible stench?
He glanced to the right into his parents’ bedroom, which appeared to be empty, but he could see the wood smoldering on their open door, as though scorched. What in—?
Movement caught the corner of his eye from back the other direction; someone was emerging from the guest room, some guy with red hair. He was looking back over his shoulder, raising his right hand about chest high, so he didn’t see John yet.
What should he do? Press the advantage while the guy was still oblivious to his presence? He wasn’t exactly an action hero — that would be Steve’s role. Where was his brother when—?
A flash of bright white light erupted from the redhead’s palm, and John understood the source of the thunder.
A paranormal! he gasped, barely holding it inside. A rogue, in our house!
He didn’t understand any of this, but he recognized the danger he was in, and he eased back into his room, pushing the door closed with the gentlest of clicks. He turned the lock on the knob, but how long would his wooden door stand up against lightning?
Turning around, his mind juggled between calling the cops or the PCA, resuming his search for a weapon, or just crawling out the window. He couldn’t leave, could he? His father was still wailing out there, and he had no idea about his mother or brother. But what could he do?!
That was when his gaze swept across the open book ... and halted.
Before, he thought the page had “pulsed” into a brighter white; now, the paper practically glowed before his eyes.
His hands trembling for a myriad of reasons, he reached out and lifted the tome. The archaic ink remained, for the most part, the same against the luminescent paper, except for a few scattered words, which each looked darker, deeper than before.
One of those words was Subcinctinin.
“Subcinctinin ...” John whispered aloud.
Did the text, that word, swell in response?
Another bolt of lightning and thunder, small by comparison but still ominous inside the confines of the house, and the book — the text, that word — reacted in kind.
Was the book ... was it feeding off the rogue’s power?
A casual rap sounded from the door. “Knock, knock,” came a stranger’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, “anyone home?”
But John was fixated on that word, feeling it in a way that he never had before. “Subcinctinin ...”
The word swel
led beyond question this time, the ink raised into a third dimension, puffy to the touch on the page; John checked, to be sure he wasn’t just seeing things.
The door handle rattled a bit, and the man singsonged, “I think there iiiiisss ...”
“Subcinctinin,” he said, louder; the text responded in kind.
The stranger’s chuckle drifted through the locked door. “Sure, whatever floats your boat.”
The air crackled with electricity, the thunder rattled John’s teeth, and the door warped out of shape, but remained closed — for the moment.
The pages glowed so bright, most of the words became difficult to see. But not Subcinctinin — that remained clear as day.
“Subcinctinin!” he cried, even as a foot connected with the door and it broke open ...
... and then John Davison was somewhere else.
PCA
Graham kicked open the door with another lightning bolt already primed and ready to fire. Because, hey, someone in this family had to be able to put up a damn fight eventually, right? According to McLane, the only one who might have was that sad sack Graham had taken out on the motorcycle. Still, didn’t hurt to be safe.
The door flew open and Graham saw someone in pajama bottoms sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands out in front of him as though reading a book, except Graham didn’t see a book. Then again, Graham wasn’t sure what he was seeing, because it didn’t make a lot of sense. The guy in the pajamas looked ... weird, wrong, his skin kind of mottled and green-ish, like he was really sick — like, on-death’s-door sick. He looked up at Graham with dark eyes and snarled like an animal, exposing toothless gums that were black instead of pink.
Was one of these Davison people a paranormal? McLane didn’t say anything about that. Hell, this guy barely looked human ...
To hell with this!
Edgy, and a little freaked out, Graham cut loose with his prepped lightning, striking the guy — the thing? — square in the chest just as he rose to his feet. He convulsed, as Graham had seen many times before ... then burst into flames, which Graham had not seen before, not so quickly anyway, not after a single bolt.
Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns Page 2