Inherited Magic (15 page)

Chapter 49

“So your boss is dead?” Radha was shocked, and her concern came through clearly in her tone of voice. John had wanted to avoid talking to her till he had settled things with Veronica and her boyfriend, but she had called as he was leaving the police station and insisted on picking him up in her roommate’s car. John didn't know she had a roommate; it was just one of many facts that he was still learning about her. John at times fought his fascination with her and at others gave in to it. He watched her drive and examined her pattern. There was nothing exceptional about it, but there was something about Radha that he couldn't look away from. “John, it's not polite to stare unless you are going answer my question.”

“He's dead.” John didn't like the way those words felt as he said them, too casual and final. “They thought that I did it at first and have been grilling me all day.”

“I'm so sorry, John.” She navigated the car casually through a tight turn. “So what now?”

“I wish I knew.” At least he didn't have to lie to her.

They drove in silence for a moment.

“I know this is a hard time.” Her voice was soothing to John as she spoke. “We both know what hard times are, and I know you can handle it, but if you need me, you can call anytime.”

“Thank you, Radha.” He found comfort in the idea and wanted to do nothing more than let her in on all his secrets and fears. He just hoped she would understand and not run away. It was a lot to ask her to accept him as someone who could do incredible things but still had problems balancing his checkbook or getting his schoolwork done. Telling her would put her in danger though, and he couldn’t bear the idea of that. “Thank you. It means a lot to me for you to say that.”

She pulled to a stop in front of John's apartment building and looked at him with soulful eyes. My God, thought John, if I must suffer all this to have a chance with her, then so be it. She leaned in to him, and they kissed passionately. They would have kissed longer, but there was a knock at the window on John’s side. Startled, he looked over, expecting to see the dark haired Peter leering at him, but instead saw a bald man in a suit with sunglasses motioning him out of the car. He looked back at Radha and saw fear in her eyes.

“It's all right,” he said, as he rolled down the window a crack.

“Conrad would like a word with you, Mr. Carter.” The bald man gestured behind them to a limo that must have pulled up while they were kissing. When he lifted his arm, John saw a large handgun holstered under his left arm. The man didn't need a gun to be intimidating.

“Thanks for the ride. I have to go.” He could tell from the fear on Radha’s face that she had seen the gun too. She grabbed his knee as he started to get up and her fear moved closer to panic. “It's all good. They're friends of Owen.”

“John.” Her voice was shaky. “I'm worried about you.”

“I'll be all right, I promise.”

“John . . .”

“I promise. I'll be fine.” John closed the door and stepped back from the car. With the bald body guard standing next to him, John watched Radha drive away, and wondered just how much worse things could get, and if Radha was already in danger because of him.

“This way, sir.” The bodyguard stepped towards the back of the car and John followed. He opened the door and John hesitated. He stood there for a brief moment, debating if this was his last chance, and from the shadows of the limo’s interior came a good natured laugh that was tempered with a slight wheeze.

“I understand your caution, young man.” The voice was accented and world weary. “I would be, too. However, I owe your mentor a great debt, and since he is gone, I now owe you. We intend you no harm.”

John got into the limo and found himself sitting across from an elderly man in a suit. The door closed, and a few minutes later he felt the limo glide into motion.

“Where are we going?” John asked.

“Just for a bit of a drive while we talk. It’s the only way we can have some privacy with the FBI following you.” Conrad held up an expensive looking glass with an amber liquid in it. “Care for a drink?”

Conrad was old, but not infirm in his appearance. He had tiny glasses that made John think of an old fashioned bank teller, which perched high on a sharp nose. He was pale, almost sickly looking. His thinning hair was a perfect shade of white and was cut close to his scalp. The suit he wore cost more than most family cars

“No. No, thank you.”

“Owen never drank either; he just smoked those horrid cigarettes of his.”

“They drove me crazy.”

“You should have seen him when he was younger! He cut back after he got married . . .” Conrad smoothed his tie. “I shall miss him a great deal.”

“The police tried to say I killed him, but this Agent Harris got me out of it . . .”

“She offered you protection if you would work for her?”

“Yeah, several times.”

“Some things never change.” Conrad said with a smile. “The Government has been trying to get a mage to work with them again since the end of World War 2.”

“Mages used to work for them?”

“During the war. We may not have won it but we sure as hell kept Hitler’s mages from mucking things up.” He sipped his drink. “Times have changed since then, and mages with government ties don't last long, no matter whom they work for.”

“Other mages kill them?”

“No, other governments. It's too dangerous, throws things out of balance. Safer to crash a plane, blow up a boat, or bomb a building, and deal with the bad press. People have gone to extremes to keep the balance of power. In an age where cities can be vaporized by anyone with the motivation to do so, balance is important. That's not why we’re here though. You seem to have stepped into a pretty good mess, even if you have turned down the FBI offers.”

“Veronica and pretty boy Peter are the ones that killed Owen.”

“There are rumors to that effect, but neither the police nor anyone else has any usable proof. That puts you in a dangerous place.”

“Agent Harris said something about that.”

“Yes, Owen held the Chicago area as his territory. Veronica has been trying to take it over so she could control the central states; no one is sure why. The only way to do it is through a duel. She would have challenged Owen, but he was too good for her. You, though, are easy pickings.”

“The FBI thinks she is looking for some sort of book.”

“Oh, is she? It would be like her. They are legends mostly. Did Owen have a chance to teach you some history?”

“Some.” John looked out the window; they were headed south on Lake Shore drive.

“Towards the end of the so called 'golden age,' it was said that an Egyptian mage, a princess by birth who rejected her royal birthright, created Primers or Grimoires. They were said to contain the total of her library and have the ability to awaken mages without an ordeal or training.” Conrad sighed and looked at his now empty glass. “She had the idea of creating a monastic order of mages. As the last of the great mages killed each other off, the books became legendary, and rumors of one were enough start wars and attract treasure hunters. Not much more than damaged fragments were ever found though. No one has seen a complete one in hundreds of years at least, and even that was only a rumor.”

“If Veronica or the government got their hands on a complete one . . .”

“There would be a lot of trouble, perhaps a return to the good old days.” Conrad's voice was heavy with sorrow and venom. He put his glass into the small mini bar next to him.

“So I'm in deep shit because she thinks Owen has one of those books, and even if he didn't . . .”

“She wants Chicago.”

“You said that you were going to help me because of a debt to Owen?”

“Owen and I both feel . . . felt . . . that the old ways need to be abandoned; that we need to change our ways or magic would soon be lost. It got us into a lot of trouble and at one point he saved my life and the life of my daughter.” Conrad looked out his window and let a silence fill the back of the limousine for a time. “I will miss that man a great deal.”

“He used to let me practice in your old warehouse.” John didn’t know what to say, but he felt the loss of Owen deeply as well and was pleased he was not alone.

“I told him to sell that place or have it demolished years ago.”

“It’s still there.”

Conrad laughed gently, and John was hesitant to break the suddenly gentle mood.

“Sir,” John cleared his throat. “How screwed am I? Can I run? Can—”

“You would die before you left Illinois. It would like an accident of course… but Veronica would kill you. If you run after she challenges you, well, then you will be sanctioned, and a Censor will take care of the rest.”

“So what can I do?”

“I’m going to buy you some time at the conclave, perhaps a month or more. You are going to practice like hell, and I will teach you what I can. Then you will most likely have to face Veronica in a duel to the death. We'll find out when the conclave meets soon. So buy a suit.”

As you can imagine, John was not thrilled with his life at that particular moment.

Chapter 50

It was difficult to reconcile the world John found himself in compared to the one he thought he knew. Day to day life went on. People got up, readied themselves for the world, and went to work or school. They came home to their families or friends and spent the evening passing the time or contemplating the day’s events. They were aware of the power games that politicians and generals played, and the ways they affected their lives. People even had some faint sense of influence on those power players through voting or protesting.

John found himself far removed even from those events. He had been given such tremendous power and gained nothing but trouble and suffering from it. He’d been forced into a way of life he didn't know, centuries of history that he had never imagined possible, and responsibilities he did not want. In one week, the North American Conclave would meet formally, for the first time in fifteen years. Its first order of business was to deal with the death of Owen and the disposition of his territories and student. In the meantime, John still had to go to class or he was going to fail. It was a contrast of the mundane and danger that left John feeling confused as he sat in class next to Radha.

He looked at her in what he thought was a subtle and discreet way; there is no such thing though, where the women we love are concerned. He looked at her and her pattern and tried to figure out what it was about her that made her the point around which he revolved. There was nothing exceptional about her pattern in a cold and logical sort of way, but he found that even the curves, spirals, and complexity of her pattern were beautiful in a way he could not put words to. She looked exotic to John, but that was only a part of her appeal. Her eyes were bright, and she had a smile and laugh that he lived for, to say nothing of her intelligence and courage that John found intimidating and attractive at the same time. Class ended and like a fool John was still staring at Radha as she stood up.

“Can I walk you to work?” John hurriedly gathered his notebook and things.

“Are you going to keep staring at me with puppy dog eyes?”

“Do you want me to?”

Radha laughed, and John found that, for a moment, he didn't give a damn about anything else.

Outside it was a typical Chicago afternoon for winter. There was the smell of snow in the air and the whole world seemed in motion with people in a rush to or from somewhere. Radha walked close to John, but made no effort to take his hand or warp her arm around his.

“Who was in the limo the other night?”

“An old friend of Owen's.”

“What's his name?”

“Conrad.” He had to fight back the desire to say that he suspected that he was Owen's teacher.

“John, was Owen in the mob?”

“Huh?” There are times when playing dumb is not an act.

“You've been arrested . . .”

“They didn't arrest me for anything; they just wanted to ask me some questions.”

“Really?” Radha stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and leveled a gaze at him that was withering.

“It wasn't . . .”

“You were in police custody!”

“Yeah . . .”

“You were arrested.” She abruptly started walking again and left John to catch up.

“Radha, it's procedure. They had to question me.” John was struggling with how to get out of the trouble he suddenly found himself in.

“How did Conrad know where to find you?”

“I don't know.”

“Who's been following me? And is it because of you and your not-mob ties?”

“Someone has been following you?” John felt a cold rush of fear and panic. Would someone hurt Radha to get to him? In thinking about the short but impressive list of people who wanted to do him harm, John felt stupid for thinking someone wouldn't.

“Yes, and it's because of you.”

John stammered and had no defense.

“John, tell me the truth. Why are people following us? Are you in trouble?”

“Radha . . .” He wanted the next words out of his mouth to be the impossible unacceptable truth. She wouldn't believe it though, who would? He couldn't lie though . . . “Radha, I can’t tell you about it. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I just need you to believe that I'm not doing anything—”

“John, tell me the truth now or forget it.”

“I—” John looked up and out of the corner of his eye spotted a flash of purple. At the end of the block, Peter was smugly standing in the open watching them. His pattern had a pressed look to it and was again partially hidden by his overcoat; did he think John couldn't see him? Was he the only one following them?

“John! Tell me the truth.”

“I can't Radha. You just have to trust me.”

“Forget it, John. Don't call me anymore.” She stormed off, blazing with anger and frustration, leaving John in the middle of the sidewalk feeling gutted and wondering how he had not seen this coming.

“Radha!” He chased after her.

“John, if you can't tell me the truth, then what can I trust?”

“Radha, my life is not in a sane place right now. I can't tell you the truth because-”

“Because what, John?” She glared at him.

“Please, Radha. This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Then tell me the truth, now.”

“Radha . . .”

“Don't call me.” She stormed off.

John looked around to see where Peter had gone. He was on the other side of the street, casually dodging people as he shadowed Radha. She was in danger, and he couldn’t tell her. As John slowly walked after Radha, trying keep a discrete eye on Peter, he fought with all the emotions welling up inside him. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Desperation. Anger. They all fought for his attention and clouded his mind with visions of revenge and redemption that he should have left alone; that on any other day would have been clearly bad ideas. But this was not any other day. This was the day where John hit his limit.

There is no shame in saying it: we all have a limit, a point where we either break and turn to bad habits, follow a bad idea, or give up in some small way. The thing to realize about those moments is that they do not define us. They break the barriers between what we are and what we can be. Those moments are when we crack our shells and grow a bit more; we can define how later, in better terms, when we wash away the pain and strain. We have to see them through, and we cannot turn and run from them, or we never change. This was a lesson John had learned in the last six months. He was not ready to verbalize it yet, but he understood it.

Radha walked into what she called her “tacky evil big box job” and John slowed his pace, trying to decide what to do next, how to confront Peter, when he saw something that made him pause and laugh. Peter walked into an alley and hopped to the top of a dumpster and from there to the top of the building. It wasn't the fact that he did it or the fact that he used magic to do it, but the fact that the magic wasn't his. He had activated a pattern hidden in his designer shoes, a pattern put there by a mage for someone who wasn't. John never would have spotted it if he still had to focus to see patterns; it was pure chance that he saw it as it was. He slipped across the street and worked up to a run. As he approached the alley, he put the finishing touches on a theory and decided to test it.

He ran to the same dumpster and loosened gravity’s hold on himself so he could jump to the roof top. He landed with a grace that surprised him and he felt like a superhero. Peter was on the other side of the roof, dialing a cellphone, as he watched the door Radha had gone into. John stood as tall as he could on the ledge, almost willing himself to be taller and more intimidating. He did a quick mental inventory, to make sure he was ready and convinced himself he was.

“Hey! Pretty boy, why you following my girlfriend? Veronica a bad lay?” John shouted it clear and loud as he stepped off the ledge to the rooftop. It wasn't clever enough or insulting enough, but it was a start.

Peter turned and briefly looked startled, but recovered quickly. He dropped his cellphone and reached into his coat, as if to pull a gun out. In John's mind, it all started to slow down a bit—not because of any magical ability but because of that wondrous thing called fear and adrenaline. John had not stopped to think that Peter might have a gun on him; he had been in a hurry to test out his theory that Peter wasn't a mage or even a student.

The first shot went wild and to the left of John, who had taken his experience chasing lunatics to heart and was already running at a steep angle across Peter's field of vision, forcing him to turn and adjust his footing to keep shooting. John was closing distance, but the second shot was closer, and the third was just plain scary, so he changed tactics. He leaped right at Peter and tumbled to stay below his field of fire. John added to that a few quick patterns to speed himself up and closed the distance in a flash, slamming into Peter in a very poorly executed body slam. Poorly executed or not it, was enough to knock Peter back thirty feet, knock his gun from his hand, and send him and the gun crashing to the street below. John landed on his side, just shy of the roof's edge.

He rebounded quickly and scrambled to his feet, to see Peter trying to run down an alley on the other side of the street. He was limping badly and either pulling his coat closer or clutching his chest. John was about to leap after him but was halted in mid step by a ringing cell phone. It was Peter's, lying there where he had dropped it. As is it rang, a name flashed across the screen: “Veronica.” John laughed to himself as he shoved it into his pocket. He lightly dropped to the street below, scaring the hell out of people walking by. Running across the street, he saw Peter’s gun lying in traffic where it had fallen. John scooped it up, more out of concern that some kid might find it than to use it himself. He was developing a real dislike of guns.

Peter was easy to catch up with; he must have been seriously hurt by his fall. John caught up with him where the alley ended under the L tracks for the Red Line. Peter heard John behind him and tried to run faster, looking around in a panic for a way out. When John grabbed a handful of Peter’s overcoat and pushed him to the ground, Peter grunted weakly and landed in a heap next to a rusted dumpster.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, both breathing hard from their brief but violent encounter. Peter definitely looked bad; he was pale and kept a hand clutched to chest. There were a few small cuts on his hands, and it was clear that he had broken something in his right leg. John didn't care though. This was the prick who had killed Owen, and he had been shadowing Radha; it was hard to imagine that he did not mean her ill.

“You are so dead.” Peter was breathing heavy. John could tell by his pattern that Peter had several cracked ribs. “You have no idea how many laws you are breaking.”

“You’re right, Pete. I don’t know. I do know you murdered Owen though.”

“Too bad about him really. I felt awful when that burglar killed him.” Peter’s smile was insulting.

“Not gonna be honest? Too bad.” John held up Peter's gun so he could see him check the chamber. It was a newer model than the pistol Owen had shown him how to use, but the basics were the same.

“There are rules . . .You can't just kill me.”

“I don't know if you've heard, but I'm new to this. I didn't get a copy of the rules.” John leveled the gun at Peters head. “I want answers.”

“Fuck you.” Peter said it forcefully but ended with a cough that looked painful.

“No. Not anymore.”

“John! Put the fucking gun down!”

John turned to see Agent Harris coming down the alley with a submachine gun at the ready; she was followed by two other agents with their own weapons. There was a van behind them that blocked the alley. “I'm not gonna say it again, drop the gun!”

“Fine.” John lowered the gun and turned on the safety. “But, I'm not dropping it.”

“You're under arrest.”

“Which one of us?” Peter’s voice was pained but still sarcastic.

“Both of you.”

“Fuck you.” John was done and decided to push it and see how far he could take it. “You can have Pete-the-prick. He killed Owen and who knows who else.”

“John, you're coming with us.”

“No.” He turned on Agent Harris and walked towards her.

She shouldered her gun out of reflex and leveled it at John.

“I'm done,” John said. “Everyone wants to push me around and think that I'm gonna play nice and take it. Not anymore. If you want to kill me, go ahead and try. Otherwise, stay the hell away from me.” By the time he stopped walking, the barrel of Agent Harris's nasty looking weapon was pressed into his chest.

“Are you stupid?” Agent Harris actually seemed surprised.

“I think he might be brain damaged, if you ask me.” Peter was trying to use the wall to help himself get to his feet.

“I'm not asking you. Cuff him and get him medical attention.” The two FBI goons moved quickly to do as they were told and ignored Peter's complaints.

“He's not a mage.” John didn't know if that would make things worse or better for Peter. There was something he did know though. “But, if you look close enough, I'm sure you'll be able to prove he killed Owen . . . And others.”