Science and Sorcery (23 page)

“Thank you,” she said, finally.

“Good luck,” Caitlyn said.

***

The small aircraft landed without fanfare at John F. Kennedy International Airport, seemingly just another executive jet owned by a businessman willing to show off his wealth in a time of economic hardship.  It parked in a restricted section of the airport and the single passenger was escorted off the plane by security guards who just happened to work for the CIA.  Few civilians knew that JFK served a military purpose as well as its more public role as a civilian air traffic hub, or that there were secret tunnels running through the complex.  Matt hadn't known until the CIA had briefed him after his secondment to the Mage Force and it had been something of a surprise, even though he should have expected it.  Absently, he wondered what Misty Reynolds made of it.

She appeared out of a door and Matt waved to her, showing his ID so her escorts could hand her over to him without delay.  They nodded, passed Matt the bag they’d been carrying, and then departed as soundlessly as they’d arrived.  The guards weren't there for Misty’s protection, Matt knew.  They were there to ensure that she didn't see anything more of the complex than strictly necessary.

“They’re paranoid about their secrets,” he said, by way of explanation.  If it had been up to
him,
he would have suggested that Misty flew commercial or was simply driven to New York from Washington.  But Caitlyn’s note to him had explained that someone higher up wanted something done as quickly as possible, before there was another panic.  The media knew what had happened and various panic-mongers were milking it for all it was worth.  “How was the flight?”

“The food was awful,” Misty said.  She looked...shaky; the reality of what she was going to do had come crashing down on her during the flight.  “I thought that government servants were supposed to get the best of everything.”

Matt laughed as they found his rental car and climbed in.  “A fairly common delusion,” he said.  “Do you know where you’re going?”

“I still have access to the Union’s database,” Misty assured him.  “I read the files on Fairview High while I was on the flight.  Pretty normal for such a place; over a thousand pupils, ranging from fourteen to eighteen years old.  Some pretty close ties with nearby schools, but nothing too special, even on the sporting front.  But reading between the lines, it seems to be desperately promoting sport because it doesn't have much else.”

Matt nodded.  “Until recently, it didn't really have a big NYPD file,” he added.  “Some minor drinking and drug abuse, one case of a teacher seducing a student...apparently, quite a few students were arrested during that big protest last year against student loan interest rates.  They were all released shortly afterwards with no charges.”

He glanced over at her.  “Do you know anyone there?”

“I don't think so,” Misty said.  “I read their website where they list the teachers and support staff and none of them are familiar.  They may have heard of me, but...”

Matt nodded.  In many ways, they’d been lucky to find Misty.  Unlike most of the officers the NYPD had used to infiltrate schools, she actually
did
know what she was doing, at least as a teacher.  But he knew better than to treat her as a fellow officer.  She lacked the training and the experience to back him up if it came to a fight.  And Matt was grimly convinced that it
would
come to a fight.  The rogue magician had gone too far to back down when he was captured. 

“The NYPD will see to it that you are properly briefed,” he said.  He’d never had to do anything of the sort, but then he’d been a patrolman, not someone senior enough to pick and choose his assignments.  “And on the procedures you are to follow at all times.”

Misty blinked.  “You’re not going to be with me?”

“I need to be in Washington for the full moon,” Matt said.  He was feeling uncomfortable about the prospect already.  So was the rest of the world.  The latest report said that silver bullets were being sold at terrifyingly high rates.  “I should be back in time for your first entry into the school, but there are no guarantees.”

“I see,” Misty said.  She sounded nervous, nervous enough to make Matt seriously consider asking her if she wanted to pull out.  No NYPD cop would have openly admitted to worry, let alone backed out, not if he wanted the respect of his friends and comrades.  “I’ll just keep my eyes open.”

“And keep your own magic under control,” Matt added.  “The last thing we want is him to get a sniff of you.  If he went after his previous victim because she was an unchanged Changed, you are going to look like a far more attractive sacrifice.”

“I know” Misty said.  “I’ll try to be normal.”

Matt’s lips twitched.  “Welcome to chaos,” he said.  “The
new
normal.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

New York, USA

Day 27

“...In Washington today, Senator Whitehall renewed his campaign for strong legislation covering the existence of magical creatures and the use of magic by ordinary humans,” the newsreader said.  She was a tall woman with alarmingly large breasts; rumour had it that dozens of people who thought they might be magicians were trying to create spells to make her top fall off on live television.  “His speech comes in the wake of the discovery of a case of ritual murder in New York and a mermaid locked inside a brothel by her pimp.”

Calvin listened absently to the television newsreader as he poured himself a bowl of cereal and splashed milk into the bowl.  His father had already gone to work, even though it was the weekend; his boss, it seemed, wanted his workers to work more daylight shifts so they could go home before darkness fell over the city.  He did his best to ignore his mother and sister, even though part of his mind wondered if they could see the blood dripping from his hands. 

Sandra’s death had been picked up by the news, although it seemed to have been partly obscured by a report about pagans in the army, specifically on a base in Afghanistan.  The NYPD had issued a statement promising an arrest very soon, but the impact had been somewhat reduced by a plea for information for anyone who might have seen something to come forward and tell the police.  As far as Calvin knew, there weren't any witnesses, unless they tried to summon Sandra’s ghost – and the backwash of
mana
from the sacrifice should have made it impossible.  Or so Harrow had said.

He gritted his teeth as he sat down and started to eat the cereal.  The
mana
he’d sucked out of Sandra’s body was floating within his wards, giving him strange headaches that didn't seem to be quite real.  He couldn’t have put it into words if someone had asked; it felt as if it was a potential headache, rather than one that was actually burning through his skull.  Harrow had taught him how to store the
mana
safely, without trying to use it, but it still felt as if it was on the verge of breaking free.  Apparently, it took practice to learn how to carry vast amounts of
mana
safely.  Calvin didn't understand how anyone could sacrifice more than one or two people at a time.  The wave of
mana
would be utterly uncontrollable. 

The TV reader started to babble about a second ritual murder in New Orleans, which made his ears prick up with interest.   They weren't giving any description of the exact ritual, which wasn't too surprising, but it
sounded
surprisingly similar to his own.  Perhaps Harrow had other allies, although she’d acted as though he was the only one, or perhaps someone had dug up a Voodoo ritual involving human sacrifice.  The TV reader went on to babble about how the Aztecs had sacrificed humans to feed their gods and drew a line between the ritual murders and their practice.  Calvin doubted that the woman knew what she was talking about, but maybe he’d be lucky and the police would look for a Latin American.

But you had better keep working the concealment spells
, Harrow’s voice said.  She sounded stronger now, as if she were sitting right next to him rather than speaking through his mind. 
And you should learn how to make things with your bare hands.

Calvin winced.  Knives weren't the only things the sorcerers of old had made themselves, rather than simply purchasing them at the nearest convenience store.  A sorcerer could produce something intended to store
mana
, or serve as the base for a set of protective wards, or even practice something akin to voodoo, but the best results came from using something the sorcerer had produced himself.  Back then, all sorcerers had known how to produce their own tools.  Calvin had never seriously considered himself ignorant until he’d realised how much he simply didn't know.  Someone like Benjamin Franklin would have had far more practical experience to balance his philosophical musings.  Absently, he wondered what Franklin would have made of magic.  He’d probably spend all of his time trying to research it and develop his own theory of how it worked.

He’d always hated arts and crafts with a passion, simply because he was no damn good at either of them.  The paintings he’d done looked nothing like their subject, what little woodworking they’d been allowed to do had been pathetic and he had no talent for drawing at all.  He’d hoped that he might be able to cash in on the web comic fad before the market became overwhelmed, but the best he could do was stick figures.  There was no way he could produce a voodoo doll for himself, even if that
did
get the best results.  He’d just have to stick with Mindy’s old dolls.  It still seemed to work.

“Don’t forget to wash up,” his mother called, as he finished his cereal.  “And then you can go do the shopping.”

“Yes, mom,” Calvin said, tiredly.  His mother had no idea just how...
banal
she sounded.  He’d murdered a girl for power and yet his parents hadn't noticed any change in him.  It should have been a relief, but part of him found it upsetting.  They didn't pay any attention to him at all.  “Leave the list and money on the table and I’ll get to it in a moment.”

He sensed Harrow’s amusement in his mind as he washed the bowl, along with a hint of something he chose to believe was quiet approval.  Harrow had been pushing him to learn more and more, as well as developing habits she swore would be useful to a burgeoning magician.  Doing chores was apparently one of them.  An ordered mind, Harrow had explained, that didn't put off what it needed to do was one that would go far in magic.  And she’d also been insisting that he studied history, particularly anything related to the supernatural, and technology.  She wanted to know as much as she could about the world before making her emergence.

“Good work,” his mother said dryly, as she put the shopping list down on the table, along with fifty dollars.  It was lucky she couldn't hear Harrow’s laughter cackling through Calvin’s mind.  “And I see you even remembered to use soap.”

What a strange world where such a minor act is so highly praised
, Harrow said, as Calvin walked upstairs to pick up his coat and rucksack. 
My Master would never have praised me for clearing up after myself.  It was something I was expected to know before I ever came to him.

“I think it has something to do with the decline in social responsibility,” Calvin muttered.  He'd once spent two weeks reading books on child psychology in the hopes of finding out what made people like Moe tick, before deciding that some people were just born to be assholes.  “Or maybe child labour laws.”

It was hard to be sure, but he’d picked up the impression that Harrow’s world had been more based around achievement than age, or simple physical strength.  But perhaps that wasn't surprising.  A stupid magician wouldn't last very long; he’d make mistakes that would eventually kill him, sooner rather than later.  And a muscle-bound moron who decided to pick a fight with a magician wouldn't last long enough to land the first blow.  Harrow had even noted that if the moron actually won, it helped improve the general competence level of magicians, as any magician who couldn't stop a fool with a sword was a pretty poor magician. 

Outside, the wind whipped around him as he walked down the street, heading for the mall.  His mother hadn't bothered to specify any time for him to come home, so he could spend as long as he liked browsing bookshops or visiting computer games stores.  Harrow had been utterly fascinated by computers, as well as guns and modern medicine, and had been pressing him to learn more about them.  It was one command he didn't hesitate to obey.

There was a faint aura of...
fear
hanging over the city, he realised, as he stepped inside the mall.  Normally, it would be crammed with people and he would be nervous, fearful of running into Moe and his friends shoplifting or whatever else they did when they weren’t beating on him.  Now, it seemed to have only a few dozen of customers, many of whom were glancing around nervously as if they expected to come face to face with the ethically-challenged magician – as CNN had dubbed Calvin – at any moment.  None of them saw Calvin as anything other than another teenage boy with too much time on his hands.

His lips twitched as he walked towards the bookstore.  CNN and Fox – and the internet – had branded Sandra’s killer a black magician, a man who had sacrificed an innocent young girl to the dark gods.  They’d started to go on and on about the dangers of letting young men play with role-playing games instead of getting healthy exercise out in the sporting fields, before the complaints had started to come in.  Apparently, referring to a magician as a ‘black’ magician was racist.  He'd tried to explain the whole concept to Harrow, but she’d just laughed. 
Her
world had never been racist, or sexist.  All that mattered was power and the ability to use it.  The whole concept of racism stuck her as silly.

There
, Harrow said. 
What is that
?

Calvin winced at the reminder she could look out through his eyes, but did as he was told.  Not far past the bookshop, there was a small arts and crafts shop, selling various supplies to artists.  There was no one inside the shop, as far as he could tell, which wasn't too surprising.  But then, he'd always found arts and crafts boring as hell. 

Go inside
, Harrow prompted. 
You do need to learn to make tools for yourself if you are truly to develop your magic
.

A bell rang as Calvin pushed open the door, catching a whiff of paint as he stepped inside.  The shop appeared to be bigger on the inside than on the outside, although it looked to be more of an optical illusion caused by carefully-placed mirrors rather than the work of another magician from Harrow’s time.  She’d told him that magicians could turn mirrors into traps, or secure hiding places for their secrets, or even portals that allowed them to cover thousands of miles in a single jump, but apparently it took years of study to learn how to do it properly. 

Calvin looked around, unsure of what to do first.  There was an entire shelf of painting tools, ranging from fine brushes to brushes so thick they had to be for children, with rows of tiny bottles of paint underneath.  Unsurprisingly, the paint was expensive, far too expensive for Calvin to buy on his allowance.  Like so much else, painting would be a costly hobby.  Books, computers and magic were much cheaper.

The next set of shelves held woodworking tools, mostly unrecognisable to Calvin.  He couldn't imagine what one could do with most of them.  At Harrow’s command, he picked up a tiny saw and held it up, studying it thoughtfully.  It had to be for very fine work indeed.  One shelf held a dozen examples of what someone could create, if they had the time and money.  The problem was finding the time and money. 

“Calvin?”

Calvin jumped and spun around.  Marie was standing there, wearing a drab uniform that did nothing to hide her curves.  He felt visions of her nakedness rising up in front of his eyes and flushed, brightly.  A goddess like Marie would never lower herself to even
look
at a social outcast like Calvin, he’d certainly never imagined her
speaking
to him.  He heard Harrow’s laughter in his head and flushed again, wondering why he felt so tongue-tied after everything he’d done.  How
could
he hold a normal conversation with her?

“Hi,” he said, finally.  “I...I just came in to browse.”

“My dad’s brother owns the store,” Marie said.  He hadn't asked her what
she
was doing in the store, but she was somewhat self-obsessed.  And besides, she wouldn't want anyone to think she went into the store willingly.  “Dad insists that I work here on weekends.”

Calvin tried hard to keep his face under control.  Marie’s family were supposed to be rich, although he knew that such things were relative.  A millionaire might still be poor compared to one of the Wall Street bankers who’d made billions off the banking crash.  The internet claimed that a higher than normal suicide rate on Wall Street was caused by hundreds of curses being directed at the bankers by their victims.  But Marie’s father had made his money the hard way and he clearly didn't intend to let his daughter waste
all
of her life. 

“Here?”  Calvin asked.  “Not the clothing store?”

It sounded dumb the moment the words came out of his mouth.  Marie’s face twitched unpleasantly, leaving Calvin feeling a strange mixture of shame and anger.  He
had
sounded a little...stupid, hadn't he?  Marie spent half of her time in clothing shops, but as a customer rather than a worker.  She'd hate the very idea of being treated as she treated serving girls.