The Last American Wizard (12 page)

Ace looked at Steve, who shrugged. They both got in the BMW and Ace shouted out the open window, “
Bien tipos, vamos a dejar de perder el tiempo. Conduce, vamos a
seguir.”

A pickup truck with a custom painting of brilliant flames all along the bottom swept into the lot and stopped in a cloud of dust. About half the gang members jumped in, and it took off in a jackrabbit start so fast that one man fell off the
back.

Ace drove carefully around
him.

After a moment, Steve asked. “What’s a ‘prima palumbo’?”

“
Primera palabra
. First speaker. The Boss. The second
in command is the
segunda palabra
,
naturally.”

“And ‘Whispering
Death’?”

“Yeah, that’s what they called SEALs back in the Vietnam days. Used to crawl through the swamps and collect Viet Cong ears.”

Ace abruptly changed the subject. “Let’s get some intel on this meet. Pull Send Money off your belt and let me see the screen.
Hey, Money, do a random pull from a tarot deck and show me
what you
get.”

When he held out the now-armored phone, it showed five men holding wooden staves fighting each
other.

Ace snorted. “Well, that figures. Five of Wands. That’s strife and battle or, at best, just
argument.”

She thought for a moment. “Hey, Money, pull another card, the five is just too
obvious.”

The phone’s screen flickered. Now, it showed a man looking definitely sneaky, carrying a bundle of staffs away in his arms. Ace laughed. “Now that’s more like it. Seven of Wands.
Betrayal.”

Steve asked. “Why do Wands come up so
much?”

Ace began to speak in the regular tempo of a drill instructor. “According to the OTN manual Section 50, Subject Matter: tarot, Wands are related to Fire. Fire is the element of violent change and destruction, which pretty well fits MS-13 gangbangers. Also describes the kind of people who’d sacrifice an airplane full of people to get their way, now that I think about
it.”

“I must have forgotten my college courses in Thaumaturgy
and Divination. Run through the other suits and their elements, will you?”

“Well, Pentacles is the Earth suit and that’s
solidity, reliability, and money. Most Republicans would fall into that group. Cups are Water, of course, and that’s change, persistence, and the
emotions.”

Steve said. “That’s got to be
Democrats.”

“Yep. Swords are the Air cards. A Sword cuts through air– among other things–and so it tends to be tough, biting, and martial. Swords also cut complex things into simpler things–thus all those computers at NSA and the geeks who love them. Air is also everywhere and sees everything, so journalists fit in that category as well. Air creatures are things that fly, naturally, like pixies or fairies–real fairies, that is, not to denigrate many of my fellow warfighters.”

Steve snorted. “How real...wait, that’s the wrong
question. How reliable is all this tarot
crap?”

“Most of the tarot books were written by crazy people in the 1800’s–not by any mysterious prehistoric masters.” Ace shrugged. “For all we know, tarot decks may have been used for some sort of card game with an element of the mystical added for a little extra excitement.”

“So, why use
them?”

“Because it’s an easy way to identify and classify OTN phenomena.” The pickup truck pulled into a space in front of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse and Ace followed. “In the end, the primary reason is that we really have no freaking idea what’s going on, so it’s as good as anything
else.”

She opened the door and stepped out. “Let’s go see the Big Dog and then we can get out of here,
OK?”

The gang members piled out of the pickup, and Hector, the man who had fought Ace, knocked on the battered door of the warehouse. Steve noticed that the door–in fact, the entire place– was nowhere near as flimsy as it first appeared. There was a sequence of knocks from inside and a response from Hector. Steve heard a chorus of metallic squeals and the door
opened.

As they entered, Steve noted that the outer door was made of triple layers of heavyweight plywood buttressed by cross-bracing on the inside surface. When the door closed, the gang members on guard duty shoved slide bolts into slots cut into the top and sides of the doorframe and deep into the solid wood
floor.

“This place is not only tough to get into,” he thought. “It’s going to be hell to get out
of.”

There was a short corridor ending at another door, evidently there just to block the interior from anyone watching from
outside.

Passing through the second door, they came into a single room that took up the entire interior of the warehouse and was lit by skylights cut into the roof and windows set high on the rear wall. Along the right wall, there were a rudimentary kitchen and an extended table. “Clearly,” Steve thought, “for those cheerful dinners that make a drug gang just one big happy
family.”

In the center of the room was a large chair mounted on a wooden platform. If it hadn’t been an extremely battered orange La-Z-Boy recliner, it might have looked like a throne.
Surrounding it in a semicircle was an assemblage of worn furniture that Steve guessed had been taken off the streets before the trash trucks could pick them
up.

Counting the contingent from the pickup truck, there were a couple of dozen young men in the room. All of them sported elaborate
tattoos.

In the center sat a massive dark-haired man who had been radically affected by the Change. He was shoeless and his bare feet had pulled together and hardened–Steve guessed that they would look like horse hooves in a matter of minutes. Short dark fur was growing on all visible parts of his body, covering his multicolored tattoos. He was clearly not enjoying any of this transmutation; he looked as if his back was killing him and was sitting hunched forward with the recliner set as upright as possible.

All the changes to his body were nothing compared to what was going on with his face. The eyes were light red with deep crimson pupils, and in the growing twilight, Steve had no doubt that they were actually glowing. You couldn’t really say he had a nose any longer; it was a long muzzle with a flat, black end that he licked continuously and apparently unconsciously. His lips and gums were black and drawn back to reveal a very white set of very sharp
teeth.

He was turning into a dog and evidently was not happy about it.

Steve had a thought. Putting the phone to his ear, he said softly. “Send Money, check the references for
cadejo
. Just show it to me on the
screen.”

The now-expected flicker of web pages and translator icons only took a minute before the screen
showed

This changed quickly
to

Send Money
added,

“Wonderful,” Steve muttered as he clipped the phone back onto his belt. “And me without any Milk
Bones.”

The creature in the central chair gave a low querulous growl, and Ace turned to Steve. “I don’t mind doing the heavy lifting, but I think you’re better at witty conversations with pseudo-mythical creatures.”

“Oh, is that the division of labor?”

“You want to take over the
fighting?”

Steve didn’t have an answer to that, so he stepped forward to address the gang leader. The transformation he was undergoing
was speeding up; Steve could see definite changes in the few minutes since they had walked in. He had a sudden thought that he’d better get the conversation over before this guy needed to be walked.

“Mr.
Cadejo
,” he began. “Nice to make your
acquaintance.”

The only response was silence. Everyone in the room was tense, hanging on every
word.

“We’re coming down from Fort Meade to investigate the wave of...change that’s gone through here today. You’ve probably noticed a few changes
yourself–”

He was interrupted by a whining
bark.

Steve thought, “Glorious ancestral beast or not, this guy isn’t exactly jubilant about turning into the Great Dane from Hell.” Aloud, he asked, “Can you tell us what’s happened
here?”

Carlos shook his massive shaggy head. Then he flopped forward out of the chair. Steve could see that his hands were also massive cloven hooves. When he finally stood on all four...feet...he was still tall enough to look Steve in the
eye.

After a moment, he yawned, showing a truly stunning array of teeth, and curled down to lie on his stomach on the floor. He
turned his head and jerked his chin at the
segunda
palabra
.

Jairo stepped forward. “It is you who should tell us about what has caused these changes! Have those bastards up at the NSA released some secret weapon? A poison gas or
something?”

“We know it’s not coming from the NSA,” Steve said. “But beyond that, we don’t know all that much, I’m afraid. That’s why we’re here–to find
out.”

“That’s bullshit. Those
pendejos fresa
up there have been fucking around and they’ve let something out. We know what it is
sabes
?
No estamos de mierda estúpida. Es magia maldita
. Black magic. Our
primera palabra
is turning into the
cadejo
of the old stories and many of our soldiers are growing teeth and long ears like
dogs.”

The phone buzzed and Steve looked at the
screen.

“Wonderful,” Steve
thought.

The big dog stood up and began to pace back and forth, growling angrily. As he passed, he snapped his teeth at his lieutenant.

“Yes.” The man seemed shaken. “Can this be changed? Carlos...er...
el Cadejo
...is not pleased. Being a big dog might be useful in fighting, but the
chicas
are
terrified.”

The phone on Steve’s belt vibrated suddenly and Barnaby’s voice came out of the speaker. “I’m sorry to interrupt but it’s important. Carlos, or Mr.
Cadejo
, if you prefer, I don’t know if we can reverse the change completely–it’s a fairly essential part of your character–but we think we have worked out something that can make you much more of a man and less of a
dog.”

The
cadejo
came over and suspiciously sniffed at Steve’s belt. Suddenly, a flurry of idiomatic Spanish came out of the cell
phone’s speaker. At first, the enormous dog reared back then sat on his haunches and listened with
concentration.

He didn’t even notice when two of the gang ran up behind
him, each carrying thick ropes with nooses on the ends. They dropped the loops around his neck and immediately pulled hard in opposite
directions.

The dog-monster roared and whipped around, trying to reach the traitors, but they were already out of reach. Now other gang members grabbed onto the ropes and added their strength. Steve thought he could pick out the ones who had been affected by the Change–the muscles in their legs were corded and straining. The big dog monster stamped and snapped but finally was held motionless, howling in frustrated rage. Steve thought he could hear the shadows of human words in the howl–promises of terrible vengeance.

Ace had stood quietly through all this and now nodded her head, and said, “Betrayal. I thought that was meant for us, but it looks like number two wants to move
up.”

Jairo heard her and laughed. “Indeed. Carlos was a problem long before he became a monster.
Sangron,
you know? Thought
his shit didn’t stink. All agreed it was time for a
change.”

There was a strangled cry from behind Steve; he turned to see Hector, Carlos’s brother, stumbling back as he tried vainly to hold back the blood flowing from a knife wound that ran most of the way across his
throat.

“Well, almost all.” The new gang leader laughed and then turned to Steve and Ace. “And now,
mi aleros
, I’d like to introduce you to...friends of yours? Well, perhaps they are not friends but they certainly are eager to see you. They paid us well to let them know if you’d arrived and more to keep you here until they could come for
you.”

The inner door opened and seven men in similar black custom-fitted suits entered. Their clothes were so similar, they looked like uniforms. As soon as they cleared the entrance, they formed a wedge. The man at the point of the wedge was clearly the leader. He was older, with dramatic streaks of gray at his temples, and an air of authority. Clearly, their arrival was a surprise to many of the gang members, if not to Jairo. The gang was stepping back, giving ground to the
newcomers.

Ace pulled the backup gun from her ankle, but the leader made a quick but elaborate gesture with one hand and the pistol spun off to land in a far corner of the room. Ace instantly went for her
knives.

Steve tried to gather power for his rose shield and the blast that had gutted Tataka, but he could tell that–except for the leader who continued to deal with Ace–all of the other newcomers were concentrating on him. He felt as if his mind was wrapped in soft blankets. Even the image of the Fool wouldn’t come into focus. It would begin to appear and then dissolve into cloud-colored mist.

Since he wasn’t concentrating on a card, Steve could see as Ace whipped a knife at the leader’s head, but another of his swift hand movements sent it up to embed in a roof beam. Ace dropped
a knife, cursed at her clumsiness, and then threw four more so quickly it almost seemed that they flew in formation. All were deflected with contemptuous
ease.

The leader raised an eyebrow as if asking Ace whether she had any more things to throw, and then, apparently satisfied that they had the situation in hand; he relaxed and pulled a delicate silver box from a vest pocket. Opening it with a snap, he took a pinch of what Steve supposed was snuff, placed in his right nostril, and inhaled with evident satisfaction. When he spoke, it was with a very slight German accent. “Jairo, thank you for alerting us to your visitors. Along with my congratulations on your new status as
primera palabra,
I assure you that you and your men will be well rewarded.”

Jairo nodded his head and said, “
Gracias, Señor
Weishaupf.”

“Weishaupt,” the older gentleman corrected Jairo sharply,
and then
turned
to
Ace.
“Ms.
Morningstar,
I
think
you
should
stand down. Even the Ace of Swords doesn’t have a chance against a full straight.” He indicated the men behind him. “Not to mention two
of the Minor
Arcana.”

Something was bothering Steve. Some idea was trying to break through the haze that lay over his
brain.

Weishaupt waited for a second, apparently expecting Ace to accept the hopelessness of the situation, and then turned to Steve. “Well,
Herr
Rowan, I will admit that you’ve gotten much further than we ever expected, but I’m afraid your time playing at being the Last American Wizard is
over.”

Steve wasn’t paying attention. He was furiously trying to work out a way past the magical shields on his mind. At the same time, he was digging for that elusive memory. He kept thinking of the movie
Silverado.
There was a line in there....

Weishaupt turned and walked to the door, telling his companions. “Secure the Fool well, and bring him along. We still have plans for him. You can dispose of
her.”

“I got it!” Steve realized. “It was the scene where the kid said that Kevin Costner had died ‘when he fell off his horse’ and Scott Glenn just smiled. Smiled because he knew that his brother would never have fallen off his horse, which meant he was still
alive.”

Ace Morningstar would never have dropped a
knife.

Then it came to him–the image of a knife–no, a rapier, long and thin like the stick over the Fool’s
shoulder.

His fingernails dug into his palm until he felt the tips slick
with blood. Instantly, the blood magic cleared his mind, and the image of the Fool was clear. He
Studied
the thin rod over the boy’s
shoulder.