Inherited Magic

When John's father dies, he finds a box hidden away in his father's things. Opening it changes John's life forever when he is suddenly initiated to the dying world of magic.

Inherited Magic

Andrew Gordinier

Prologue

Her stark white hair stood out against the night as it trailed behind her, flirting and tangling with her ever-present purple scarf that cascaded from her shoulders with an elegant grace. That statuesque faces of hers was coiffed and perfect with just a hint of make up to accent the radiance of her youth. John hated the f*****g perfect b***h with every fiber of his being. As she rushed him, her sharp, white, and perfectly straight teeth were locked in a joyful sneer; she was loving every moment of this. He, on the other hand, was not enjoying the feeling of blood dripping down his arm, nor the sudden familiar pang of doubt about his sanity. After all, was it normal to have some psychotic model-perfect b***h trying to kill you with what was either a small samurai sword or f*****g humongous knife after midnight in a city park? True this was Chicago, and he tried to make allowances for that, but this was still extreme. John tried to deal with it because his own pistol and the audience watching the duel, only added to the surreal nature of the scene. The deal breaker though was the half naked tribesman, which only John could see, of course. He stood tall and unflinching; with an impressive mane of iron gray dreadlocks while casually holding a spear and munching a “Chicago-style” hot dog....

Well, when things get to that point in your life, you can either choke down a whopping handful of colorful pills that have names like Thorazine and Haldol with your favorite booze or all natural juice box and hope the nightmare goes away, or you grab hold of your gonads, take a deep breath, and fight like hell. As John struggled to do the latter, some small part of him stepped back and asked the obvious question. “How the f**k did I get here, what the f**k is going on, and where the f**k do you get a hot dog this late on a Sunday night?”

Well let me tell you.

Chapter 1

A year earlier, give or take, John had stood in the chill of a spring morning on the Red Line stop at Belmont staring at a faded ad for hot dogs. It depicted Navy Pier as a giant “Chicago-style” hot dog under construction with a boat spraying a geyser of mustard along one side. John was in a poor mood. He was late to work, again, and, despite running full tilt up the stairs of the L stop, had missed the train. Now he had no hope of even pretending to be on time. He hated the Red Line, hated Chicago and hated the damn ad for “Chicago-style” hot dogs he saw everywhere. He liked hot dogs, but something in the ad offended his ketchup and mustard sensibility and this sentiment held true to much of the city. The few rare moments he tried not to hate Chicago was often ruined by the fact that the city and her denizens seemed to hate him back.

The next train arrived, John got on it and weaseled his way into a back corner. He didn't want a seat. He didn't even actually want to stand. He just wanted to be in the corner where he could look out the window at the dreadful city going past and avoid the other people on the L. John didn't know, couldn't know, but everyone else on the L was grateful for this. He had an almost palatable scent of misery that hung about him. Those experienced city dwellers knew well enough to avoid eye contact with him and evade what could only be a dreadful and uncomfortable hell of small talk if he chose to speak. John ignored the small warm cluster of humanity in the train car with him; it ignored him just as happily. He was soon lost in the halt and go motion of the train and happy with his own misery.

He made his transfer to another train in short order and sat in an almost empty train car all the way to Evanston. At his stop, he vaulted down the stairs and jogged down the street to a building that must have once been a warehouse but was now a poorly conceived office building. He slipped into a side door and swiped his ID badge through a time clock without looking at the time. He was late, and that was enough for him. He dodged past coworkers, muttering greetings here and there, to his small undecorated cubical. He sat down heavily, put his headset on, and was taking calls before he even took off his coat.

He worked through lunch, to make up for being late. He sat at his desk munching junk food while doing paper work between calls. He suspected that those neon orange thumb prints with a fake cheese smell would come back to haunt him, but he was of the mind that everything eventually everything did, so why fight it?

At mid afternoon his boss, Sandra, stopped by and gave him a cup of fresh coffee. That could only mean she needed him to work overtime. He needed the money; he always needed the money, so he agreed. Watching her walk away out of the corner of his eye John briefly wondered what Sandra looked like naked, then more than briefly, fantasized about what generally happens between two naked consenting adults. Nothing would ever happen though, office politics and sexual harassment aside. It wasn't that John was bad looking, he was handsome in a square sort of way. Dark hair and hazel eyes with a smile that, when he used it, was decidedly disarming. While depression added a few shadows under his eyes, he still looked younger than 24. It had nothing to do with that though, it was that women can smell desperation and need a mile away, any who say otherwise are lying.

The nice thing about working the evening shift answering phones for a local cable company is that people always assume no one will answer. Then when John does they are surprised and pleased to talk to a real human, this makes the otherwise angry call about the football game going out during a key play, a merely aggravated call. John often had exceptional ratings when it came to dealing with angry customers, proving particularly patient and steady no matter the insults flung at him. He let it all slide because he just kept reminding himself that this was decent pay for someone without a college degree and that if he hung out long enough he might get promoted. It was a dream like winning the lottery, and was in reality, about as likely.

After work John rode the L home, it was almost empty that late during the week. He sat looking out the window at all the buildings as they slipped past, feeling nothing. He was exhausted and spent. He got off the L at Bryn Mawr and walked the two blocks to his apartment building. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, and it had improved since he first moved in several years back, but he never felt safe till he was home and the door was locked. Standing there by the door in the dark studio apartment he could see the red light blinking on his answering machine. It had a steady and almost eternal monotony to the one two, on and off blinking. After putting away his coat and boots, he sat on the edge of the bed because that's all there was, and pressed play.

“This is Earnest Brown I work with your father. I'm sorry to say that your father died this morning from a heart attack. I was there and we did everything we could, but he was gone before the paramedics could even get there. I'm sorry I don't even know what to say really.... He was a decent guy, your father. Call me if you need anything.” The machine beeped, and the light switched itself off. John sat there for a long time, feeling nothing. Eventually, he laid down on the unmade bed and fell asleep in his clothes. He didn't dream, and he hardly moved in his sleep, he simply shut off because he didn't know what else to do. All things considered, who could blame him?

Chapter 2

John loved to fly. So despite the madness of modern airport security and the outrageous expense of tickets he was happy to take his seat. The last time he had flown was when he had come to Chicago with Barb. She had a full scholarship to Loyola that paid for everything but her living expenses. So, John had said he would go along and support her while she went to school. They were young and in love, a combination that many of us know from experience is akin to children playing with loaded guns. John hated the city but as long as he had Barb he was happy and could put up with it. He got his job at the call center and together they rented a studio apartment on the north side, they had to clip coupons and count pennies to make it work, but somehow they managed to do it for almost four years. During her last year Barb had started to get distant, John chalked it up to all the stress of her classes. Then a week before she was due to graduate, she told John.

“I'm leaving.” She said with still certainty. “I'm moving.”

“Leaving? Moving?” John had been confused.

“I've sort of been seeing someone else. He's got a place downtown.”

“But...” John struggled, this was unexpected to him, and he had not seen the signs.

“Its better this way, it really is.” She paused. “We're not the same. You don't want anything, there's nothing you reach for.” As she stood there by the door her bags packed and looking at him, John felt so very small. He found a shadow of self-doubt and fell into it, wondering if it was true that he wanted nothing and reached for nothing.

“I want you to be happy.”

“Johnny.” She said in that voice that he had never thought of as condescending before. “That's not what I mean.” She left her keys on the counter in the tiny kitchen and walked to the elevator, dragging John's self esteem on the bottom of her shoe the whole way.

John loved to fly and even with the burden of his father’s death on his shoulders, a smoldering anger and sharp lust for Barb, and all his other worldly worries... He was happy when the engines roared. He didn't have a window seat, he didn't need one. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the world falling away till details were hard to see and clouds rushed past near and intimate. Even as a child John had dreamed of flying. He had been fascinated by anything that could break earthly bonds and leap into the sky. When he learned the science behind it, part of the magic was stolen, and he grew up a little. Now as an adult he could sit in his chair and while others complained about the cramped conditions, close his eyes, and touch that small bit of his childhood dream.

Chapter 3

The apartment of the late Charles Carter reminded his son of his own back in Chicago, except for that his father had lived in his small basement apartment for nearly as long as John could remember. There was no natural light in the place and turning on the lamps scattered about helped little, John perpetually felt surrounded by shadows and found himself squinting to see. His father’s affairs had been in surprising order; there had been instructions and plans for his funeral with a small sum set aside to pay for it. His property such as it was fell to his only living relative; John. So with a day to spare before the funeral home could fit them in, he had never known there was a waiting list, he turned to the task of his father’s apartment.

The landlord was willing to give John plenty of time to clear out the apartment, but he couldn't stay that long. He only had a couple of days, and there certainly wasn't that much to go through. So with what could be called a single minded purpose he set about reducing the collected possessions of his father into three categories; stuff to keep, stuff to sell, and trash. As time wore on, the fastest growing pile was the last one. There were few family heirlooms, and John had known where they were when he walked in the door. The most notable being the picture of his mother in an antique gold frame that had always been by his father’s bedside. While he had never known his mother, he knew the impact she had on his father. Despite occasional dates, he had never remarried or stayed with any one woman very long. He also never held it against John that she had died giving birth to him. His father had always been consistent and steady in a way that John strove to imitate.

By late afternoon, John was almost done and was excavating the back of the bedroom closet. There was a large wooden box that John never remembered seeing before. There was no lock, just a hasp shaped like a complex flower that turned and then folded to the side. Inside was an old looking package wrapped in twine. Written across the top in extremely elegant handwriting was written “John Carter” in time faded ink. He was surprised, to say the least, and hesitated for several minutes before gently untying the twine as he did so he recalled his father telling him he was named after a great uncle who had died in the First World War. Was this meant for him? Inside were a letter, a ring, an old skeleton key, and an oddly shaped gold box. It was thin and narrow but long. Covered thoroughly in swirling intertwining engraving that fascinated John as he turned it over examining it. There was key hole to one side on what he assumed to be the top edge. It looked more like a metal book than a box and was far too light to be gold. John opened the letter and read the near perfect handwriting.

To my great grandson John,

My body grows weaker by the day and soon I will die, and I have no student. None of my children will take up the Art, nor any of my grandchildren. Our family has never been numerous and those who hear this calling are fewer still. You are now but a child and can hardly walk, but your mother who has always been faithful in her word has promised to give you this when you are old enough. She knows and will explain better than this letter can ever hope to the gravity of these items. She knows because I offered them to her and she refused, just as you may refuse. There is nothing that says you must carry this burden or follow this way of life, it is my obligation though to give you the choice. Just as it is your obligation to offer them to your children when they are old enough, free will is Gods greatest gift to man, and we must respect it. The choice is yours, and I hope you give it the contemplation and prayer it deserves.

Your Great Grandfather and Benefactor;

Joseph Carter the third

April 5th 1893

John sat there for a moment confused. He knew enough of his family history to know all of the players mentioned in the letter and saw clearly how it and the box had arrived in his hands. He was after all the last living family member. What he did not understand was what it was all about. He examined the letter closely, half hoping to find some hidden watermark or sign of invisible ink. He looked at the ring and was amazed at how heavy it was, there was no doubt this was gold. It was a complicated towering thing that had numerous small stones set all over it that were linked by detailed etchings and curving lines very similar to the strange box. On the inside was an inscription that was in a language that he couldn't read and didn't recognize. The key was an extremely ordinary looking skeleton key but had scratches that spiraled up and down the length of its shaft. The oddity of the book shaped box spoke for itself. There was a small urge of curiosity steadily growing in John that was tainted by hesitation and fear of inevitable action.

It was not unlike the fear John had the time he went bungee jumping. He had stood at the top looking down and was shocked to immobility, not by the fear to jump, but by the overwhelming desire to jump despite the dangers. Since not all of us have bungee jumped or found a strange book shaped box in a dead family member’s closet, it might be easier to think of this as the drunken x-lover. You're out with an ex, and you get to drinking (or using whatever drugs it is kids find fashionable these days), and you find yourself thinking it wouldn't be all that serious to have sex with your ex, just for old times’ sake (after all they do that thing with their tongue that no one else seems to know). As the night moves along, and your clothing slowly vanishes, the reasons this was a poor idea vanish, as well. Till you suddenly are both naked, and the moment of truth is at hand and your last sober brain cell fires off the idea that this might be bad. You pause and reconsider, thinking about how much you are disrespecting your ex and yourself by ignoring all the reasons you broke up in the first place. However, that usually is after the deed is done and you are wearing nothing but a smile because they did that thing you like so much.

John wished for an ex, desperately needed and ex to screw, anything except to have that key in one hand and the box in the other. There was an almost magnetic draw between the two, and it was all he could do to hesitate, we should give credit for doing that much. Before putting the key in the lock and turning it. There was a soft resistance to turning the key and John found himself hoping it was broken, then it meet solid resistance and knew it wasn't. He applied just the slightest pressure and the box made a loud clicking noise as the front cover opened slightly and the side panel fell open. A sense of relief washed over him, and he wondered what he had expected that could have been so terrifying and unavoidable.

With a smile to hide his previously foolish fear, he examined the box without opening it further to find that it was a metal book, with metal pages that were revealed when the side popped open. There were twenty or so metal plates each no thicker than a dime, each notched at the edge with the first one at the top and the second one a bit lower. The last notch was only a short distance from the top; there was something about this that struck John as curious. With confidence, he opened the front cover, and there was a sudden bright, almost explosive flash of light.

Normally this is the sort of circumstance where people will later report thinking something like “s**t” or “I fucked up this time” and some even claim to pray. As an intriguing side note, a survey of black boxes that record the events just before a plane crash has found that the vast majority of last words uttered by the cockpit crew were “oh, s**t”. John could make none of these claims and afterwards would never have dreamed of even pretending to, because he simply couldn't think that fast, no one can.

He sat there.

Thinking nothing.

Feeling nothing.

Just being and breathing.

Eyes locked on the complicated and unreadable symbols that filled every inch of the gold metallic page. Without will or intent on John's part, his hand reached up and turned the page. There were more symbols front and back on these pages, but he couldn't even move his eyes to focus on them or develop the desire to look at them. He was locked into a near catatonic stare that saw only the book. When the page clicked over, and he moved his hand away light played across the pages and lifted itself off of them. Forming at first a point, then a line, parallel lines, a square, cube, and then increasingly more complicated shapes. The light faded, and again his hand automatically turned the page. The lights lifted off the page again, this time forming repetitive patterns based off the previous shapes, that as they progressed and enlarged contained complexity and variation that were unimaginable at the basic smaller scales. Each time his hand turned the page, there was a new display, each more complicated than the last, each a mathematicians wet dream. Still John could not think move or even resist, he sat unblinking and helpless while this display played out in front of him. When the last page clicked into place, the glimmering lights lifted up off the page and went through gyrations and patterns inexplicable in words. Yet, in the language of math they were elegantly complex and had a beauty that was at the very boundaries of human understanding.

“What the f**k was that!?!” Escaped John's lips when he could speak again. There was a blinding pain in his eyes, and he felt groggy and slightly dizzy, but otherwise he felt fine. He stared dumbfounded at the small metal book for several minutes, daring the strange symbols on the pages/plates to do their trick again. He even flipped the book shut several times and reopened it to see if the light show would repeat itself, but nothing happened. He did notice one thing though, and he wished he hadn't. The key hole was set into the top panel of the book, so when it sat open it was on the top right side. When he put the key in, it went almost a full half inch before it stopped. Yet, the metal panel was only the thickness of a dime, like the pages, and the key never protruded through. It simply vanished into an impossibly tiny space within the panel. The sight of this and the idea of it brought something cold and liquid to John’s gut. He knew he was not only out of his league, but he questioned if might be out of his mind. He was very clearly dealing with something he could never understand and should stay the hell away from. Yet, he put the colorful box and its contents in the small pile of family heirlooms despite a deep desire to be rid of it.

That night John slept on his father’s small couch, he couldn't bring himself to sleep in his father's bed and couldn't afford a hotel room. He fell asleep almost the instant he relaxed; normally it took him what felt like hours of staring at the ceiling before he drifted off. Normally this was not. His dreams were intense and vivid; they had a quality that was realer than reality about them. At first they were a continuation of the lights and patterns from the metallic book, except for here and there in the dream they seemed to slip through time and break boundaries that John had no words to express. In his dream, he said to himself; “This is so much more than I can handle, it's so terrifying.” It was the truth, something about it sent a primal jolt of fear through him, and something more terrifying than the anger of Gods ever could be. He was so scared that the woman’s voice that answered his was a comfort even though he did not know the speaker and could not see anyone or anything beyond the gyrating coalescing patterns....

“These are moments you will never forget, we have all experienced them, all trembled in terror at what they meant. Do not abandon hope, have faith in your teacher, have faith in the skills you have learned. Never forget the first lesson.” He knew that what the woman said should make sense that it should fit into some greater structure that he didn't have. John fought down his panic and tried to wake up but couldn't. It was such a struggle that when he finally did wake up he bolted upright and leaped across the small apartment. John was losing patience with this steady stream of 'what the f**k' moments and feared they would become his everyday life. I can tell you safely his fears were about to be realized.

Chapter 4

Springtime in Saint Paul, Minnesota is a treacherous thing. Cold and bitter as the early days of winter, yet there are moments where you dare to hope for springtime and warm weather. John had not been back in years, and had not forgotten how cold it was, so he was happy his father had chosen to be cremated rather than buried. While there was no family left to show up, there were plenty of friends, coworkers, and neighbors who did. His father had always been an easy going guy that people just seemed to want to talk to, and as a result, he had friends from every corner of his life show up to bid him farewell. John was happy to see so many people and more than a bit nervous that he knew so few of them. Every conversation seemed to start with either “You must be John...” Or “I'm very sorry...” It was starting to wear thin extremely quickly.

When the service got started, and everyone took a seat it was only a momentary relief because it drew closer the moment when he would have to stand up and say something about his father. It wasn't that he lacked things to say or funny stories to tell; he just had never been good giving speeches. When the time came he walked to the front and stumbled over a wrinkle in the carpet, almost falling. He joked that it was almost the last of the Carter family right there, people chuckled, and he felt a bit more at ease. He read the short eulogy with what he felt was a shaking voice, to him it seemed a silly thing, a small thing to try and sum up a life with. He walked to his seat and sat down while others got up and told stories, some he had heard, other he had not. As he listened, he caught sight of someone standing behind the flower arrangements. At first he thought it must have been an employee of the funeral home slipping from room to room discretely, but he was wrong.

Stepping out from behind the flower arrangements was an extremely tall, mostly naked, African tribesman. He wore nothing but cut off jeans that were faded, ripped, and stained while carrying a thin spear with a menacing steel tip that glinted in the light. The Tribesman's hair was iron gray and hung nearly to his waist in thick dreadlocks, his beard was a bristling mass of whiskers obscuring his mouth. John was shocked, to say the least, if this was a joke it was neither the time nor place for it. He looked around to see what the reactions were of the people around him were and to his further surprise they were not looking at the tribesman. Every eye was locked on the older woman at the front of the room as she told a wandering yarn about the time John’s father helped her remove a live cat from the lint trap in her dryer. He looked back to the tribesman and watched him quietly sit next to the priest on a metal folding chair to one side.

You and I know, from the prologue that only John could see the Tribesman. He didn't though, and we have to give him some credit for figuring it out quickly and not doing anything dumb. He didn't ask anyone; “Hey, who's the guy with the spear that forgot his shirt?” This isn't about John, and how he ended up in locked psychiatric unit after all it’s about... Well, it's not about that anyway. John though was pretty sure that he was going to end up in a locked room being force fed colorful pills and asked about his feelings in regards to alien mind control and electric shock treatment. As soon as things wrapped up with the funeral, John walked up to the chair the Tribesman had been in only seconds before, and started looking discretely for hidden doors. When he couldn't see any he didn't dismiss that there might be one concealed somehow, but he was somehow certain that there was no door. He was also certain that the Tribesman was real, he wasn't crazy, but this left him with the uneasy question of why no one else seemed to see him. John knew better than to start asking people about it and did his best to muddle through the rest of the evening without hallucinating further.

Later that night as John sat on the floor of his father’s now empty apartment; he toyed with the ring and contemplated the last couple of days. There was a deep sense of unreality about it. The suddenness of his father’s death was difficult enough and brought him to a wretched and lonely state on its own, but it also left him confused and looking for answers to the big questions of life. “What is the Meaning? Is there a purpose to all this?” And the most damning realization that a man's life eventually added up to a few small boxes of keepsakes and a lot of trash bags in the alley. It made John look at his own short and unremarkable life in a harsh light. This was enough to make any grown man reconsider his choices, direction in life, and what it all meant. Throw in that book and the crazy letter that hinted at so much but said so little, then suddenly the floor did not seem so solid anymore. It was perfectly reasonable that he should be seeing strange things as his mind cracked under the strain. Wasn't it? He told himself that he didn't feel crazy. Do crazy people know they are or is it the denial that makes them crazy?

He put the ring away and stretched out on the blankets he had laid out on the floor, John suddenly felt so terribly alone and tiny in the universe. In the morning, he would turn over the keys to the landlord and head back to Chicago. Was Chicago really his home now or was it just the place he was stuck and couldn't escape? He suddenly felt angry, and impotent. John had never considered suicide, never been one to give up (blindly marching on was another matter), but he suddenly understood how people could chose to escape. He wouldn't, he had questions. If nothing else, he wanted to know what the hell that book was and where it came from.

Chapter 5

John was late, again. Standing on the L platform staring at the same faded and miserable “Chicago” style hot dog, again. It was raining though, John just wasn't impressed, and he didn't want to run in an effort to stay dry. He just stoically walked through the rain and trusted in his coat to keep him dry. The train rumbled up through the rain, and John found himself alone in the L car. He settled in to watch the world go by. He wanted the train to skip its stops, the driver to ignore yelling customers on the platforms and keep going. He wanted the world to lay down new track that ran off into some vast and unknown world. He wanted to escape but had no place to run to, and only himself to run from.

He clocked into work, not as late as he thought, but still remarkably late. To his surprise Sandra was waiting for him at his cubical, she was sitting in his chair, arms folded across her chest and a frown ruining her pretty face. When John stopped to take off his coat, she held her hand up and said only; “We need to talk.” She then got up and walked the short distance to her tiny office without looking to see that John was following.

“I got promoted.” She said flatly as soon as John shut the door.

“That's great news!” John had the sudden idea that this might mean he would get her old job, but this good news plainly conflicted with her mood. John looked for a chair that he knew wasn't there, so he stood and there was barely enough room for that.

“It is for me and not so much for you.” Sandra had always been blunt, but this was beyond her usual time is money attitude. “You know I've been covering for you a long time?”

“Covering for me?”

“The constant tardiness and... Other things.” She went from blunt to vague. What the hell?

“Other things? Have customers been complaining?”

“No.”

“Then...”

“John... You've been here a long time, so I know you and understand. Most of these other people don't. “

“Understand what?” John was suddenly extremely lost and starting to feel left out of the joke.

“That you're very lonely.”

“What does that have to do with my job?'

“You stare a lot. I've always thought it was kinda flattering the way you watched my a*s.” John’s face suddenly felt hot. “But not everyone feels that way. You kinda creep a lot of people out.”

“Oh.” John suddenly wished he had something smart and witty to say, but he knew that only happened on sitcoms where there were teams of writers working in the leads favor. Unfortunately for John he has only me as his narrator and I’m sticking to the truth.

“It's also serious when one of those people is the owner’s daughter working under her mother's maiden name. Do you see?” There was sympathy there in her voice, there always had been, John had just been mistaking it for affection and only now realized his mistake. “The tardiness is more than enough to get you fired, but staring down the wrong woman's blouse while she files... Every day. That is so much worse. I had to convince them to them to let me fire you. They wanted to make it an HR thing; I thought it would be best if we just did this between the two of us.”

“Oh.” John suddenly felt there was nothing to say, ever. This was not a sitcom after all, this was his life and he had just been called a creepy pervert by his very pretty boss. She had done it as nicely as she could, but still she and others apparently were saying he was a creepy pervert of some kind.

“John..”

“Just give me a minute to clear out my desk.” He opened the door, walked to his cubical and saw that there was only his coffee mug. He shuffled back to Sandra's office. “F**k it, you can have the coffee mug. Can I just leave or do I need to be escorted out?”

“I'll walk you out.” Sandra looked ashamed and miserable but said nothing else and neither did John. At the door, he gave her his keys and ID. The receptionist had his check, and he filled out some HR paperwork on a clip board. The whole while Sandra hovered around like she wanted to say something else but was having a hard time with it. When John finished and walked out the door Sandra leaned out the door into the rain.

“John, I felt terrible saying this as your boss, I can say it now. Barb was a total b***h from the start, you just never saw it. Trust me, you're better off without her,” She then vanished into the doorway before John could muster a response.

“Thanks and f**k you too.” He mumbled to the rain as he walked away.

At no point had it occurred to John that he should or could deny the charges that he could fight for his job and dignity. A lot can be said about that, and what it meant about his state of mind, mental health professionals would sit up take note and say that it was behavior brought on by low self-esteem and depression. They would also say that John was a risk of further self destructive behavior. They would not be far from the truth and had not John’s life already changed without him fully understanding it we would be concerned for his well being. That is not to say he wasn't about to face some particularly hard times, just that suicide is not in the cards.

Chapter 6

He dreamed of patterns traced in the sand. Lines and curves filled with gold that shimmered in the sun. At the intersections, there were bright fire red rubies that called out and beckoned to points in the pattern far and distant from themselves. It was soothing and organized to look at, there was a meaning to it that was beyond him, but he felt empowered to seek it rather than shy away from it.

Tuesday morning John woke from his dreaming, fixed a luxurious breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast. It was a lot more than John's usual English muffin or cold cereal, and it had a sedative effect on him, he had an urge to climb back into bed and spend the morning listening to the radio, he wanted the comforting imagery of the dream again. He resolved instead to take the day slow and hope that it worked for the best. So he showered and dressed for the day trying not to think about anything, but as many of us know from experience that never works. It is often an invitation to those small random thoughts that weave and thread back to the precise thoughts we are escaping. So by the time John walked out his door he was thinking about his father’s sudden absence from the world.

At the convenience store, John bought a candy bar and several newspapers, a couple neighborhood papers and then the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times. The teenage kid at the register was the owner’s son, he didn't know any of their names, but he knew them all by face and tried to chat with them when he could. It wasn't much of a trip out, but it exhausted John, and he was happy to lock his door on the day well before noon.

With a ball point pen in hand, he scoured the papers while he listened to the radio. He was happy not to have a TV suddenly because he knew it would just distract him, but he was still mad at Barb for taking it (she had left the DVD player though). Not that the radio or TV would help him find a job, a task he knew was going to be difficult. He only had his high school degree and working at the call center for six years had been his longest running job. He found himself circling jobs that were more daydream than reality just so that he could circle something. The few serious phone calls he made ended the same way every time “fax your resume to HR or apply on-line at the website.”

John skipped lunch unintentionally and at four o'clock found he was ravenously hungry. He wanted to go out or order pizza, but his wallet was thin and his bank account wasn't even going to make next month’s rent. So he settled on a frozen dinner. As he waited for it to cook, there was nothing to do and John suddenly found himself restless and angry at the world. Eating didn't help, mostly because the food tasted awful and he needed hot sauce on everything. After cleaning up, he leaned against the wall by the window and looked out over the city.

It was well past sunset and working on night time now, people were rushing through the cold to get home or to work, or wherever. All John saw was a rush of cars through the gaps in the buildings and the occasional L train racing past. Again thoughts floated through his mind in a tangle that he didn't want and couldn't face. His father's death and how his life had been reduced to a few small boxes. Was this to be his fate? Who would order his life away into boxes and would it all end up in the alley as trash? John felt a wave of depression rising within that he felt powerless to escape.

As John steeled himself for his inner battle, he spied a large TV in a building about a block away. He watched it long enough to see that the owner was proudly watching some extremely nasty porn on it. How big was that TV that he could see it clearly from a block away? How much did it cost? And how pathetic off John that even this distant glimpse of carnal pleasure was enough to excite him?

“Big f*****g deal, if I'm a pervert then I'm a pervert.” John confessed to the window before crawling into bed and savagely masturbating to the mental image of his x-bosses daughter doing the filing naked. He only climaxed though when his mind slid to Sandra's sympathetic smile. “I'm not a pervert, I'm just f*****g pathetic.” He confessed to his empty apartment.

Chapter 7

John had no illusions about his possible future. He knew if he didn't get lucky quickly he was going to have to take at least two jobs in fast food joints just to make rent. So he packed his over sized backpack with everything that might be of value, including his grandfather’s ring. He had considered the strange metal book but somehow the idea of selling it repulsed him and made him angry at himself for considering it. He never even considered the gold picture frame with his mother's picture in it.

The first stop was to the library to use the computers. He got there as they opened and wasted no time in getting started. He meticulously punched in the web site address of the jobs he had called and filled out their online forms. John had never been good with computers, but for some reason he suddenly found that he just got it. He may not have known the specific commands, keystrokes, and mouse clicks required, but he knew what he was looking for. It was a shock. He had never seen himself as stupid, but even the software at the call center had been a challenge to him. Now it was a pleasure to navigate the Internet on the clunky library computer. While John had never wanted one before, he found himself adding a computer to his “if I win the lotto” list.

After the library, he stopped at a small and extremely greasy burger stand almost totally hidden by an L stop. It was one of those few neighborhood jewels that John had come to love. The guys that worked there knew him by sight and always asked “The usual?” And they got it right without fail; double cheese burger (ketchup and pickles) fries and a drink. It was one of the few places in Chicago that he felt like he could feel at home. He sat on a too tall stool and watched the traffic and people pass him by. He ate his food slowly and enjoyed every hot greasy mouthful.

Too soon he was done with his food and headed up the dirty and worn concrete steps to the L platform. There was no reason not to enjoy the day, not to feel comfortable and happy in his errands. No reason other than the fact that he was a heartbeat away from being homeless and hungry. It was a shadow that loomed over him suddenly, one that he had not expected, but had always felt was stalking him. A predator that he dreamed he could avoid. There were so many of them suddenly, with different shapes and habits, but they all seemed to seek his life in one way or another. By the time, the train arrived John felt alone and had lost the brief joy that his meal had brought.

The car he got on was mercifully empty, John stretched across several seats, lounging and looking out the window on the other side of the car. It was a short ride and a transfer from the pawn shop that had once been recommended to him by Sandra, back in the day. She said she always found the nicest jewelry there and that the prices were decent. The idea of her stooping to shop at a pawn shop was upsetting and tarnished hi image of her somehow. It made her too real and that ruined his fantasies about her.

John was startled by movement that he only caught out of the corner of his eye; he turned to look and was shocked.... Well not so shocked.... Sitting there in the far corner of the train car the Tribesman from his father’s funeral. He sat there smiling, eating fries from a greasy fast food bag, holding a massive drink between his knees, and balancing that spear of his through the crook of his arm.

“F**k me.” Escaped John's lips before he even actually knew he was speaking. To which the Tribesman responded by gently waving a salt encrusted fry, before tossing it in his mouth. John launched himself out of his chair and walked the ten or so feet across the swaying car only to find the seat empty. Again the Tribesman had vanished before his eyes, but this time he left behind a mostly empty bag of fries and opened salt packets. The fries were still warm.

Where the f**k do you go from here? The nearest psych unit? There was no shortage of them on the north side of Chicago, nor was there a shortage of crazy people. John was starting to hope that someone had planted a government chip in his head and that they were experimenting with him because the other possibilities were outlandish and unpleasant. However, despite the still warm fries, at no point did John consider that the Tribesman was real. It simply didn't fit his world view. People do not pop in and out of thin air no matter who they are. To accept that the Tribesman was real would have opened a can of worms that John was just not ready for. So he attempted to rationalize and ignore things. But he was scared enough that he hauled himself and his overloaded backpack through train cars till he found one with at least five other people in it.

Chapter 8

Getting off the Brown Line at the Western stop was like stepping back into reality for John. He had to keep looking around him to make sure that the Tribesman was nowhere to be seen. He found himself second guessing his own logic and thoughts. For some reason though standing in the sunlight surrounded by the noise of cars and people made it easier to look away and deny, because he couldn't forget. It was a short distance to the pawn shop, but the overloaded pack made the walk unpleasant. There was a faded sign over the door "Owen's Pawn Shop" next a painting of three gold orbs with crowns and jewels on them. The windows were small and dirty, but it was not difficult to see the vast assortment of goods that were available. It was also easy to see the heavy steel gates that would be pulled across the door and windows when the shop was closed. Inside there were security cameras, and everything was behind the counters or in locked cabinets out of reach. There was a register by the door and perched on a stool behind it was a man whom John assumed to be Owen. He was bald, African-American, with gray stubble, and an intimidating frame.

"What can I do for you?" His voice was deep and related quickly that he was irritated that John had wasted two heart beats looking around. There was a large book open on the counter in front of Owen. To John it looked like a chemistry book. “What can I help you with?”

"I need to sell a few things." John set the pack on the counter and unzipped it.

Owen examined the items with an air of boredom. "Well, I can't give you much for any of it. I'm up to my a*s in DVD players already. How about fifty bucks?"

"That’s all?"

"That’s it, kid."

"How about this?" John dug in his pants pocket for his great grandfather’s ring. He didn't want to sell it, but he needed to at least pay his rent. He hesitantly handed it over to Owen.

"Been a long time since I seen a ring like this, where did you get it?" As he talked, Owen produced a jeweler’s glass and started to examine the ring in a cautious manner.

"It was my great-grandfathers."

There was a soft click from the ring, and it slowly unfolded. Owen let out a slow whistle and smiled. "It certainly has been a long time since I've seen one of these. Are you sure you want to sell it?"

"I didn't know it opened like that, what's inside?"

"See for yourself." Owen carefully handed the ring back.

John looked at the inside of the ring and saw that it had swirling patterns and lines with twisting angles etched into the metal. There were tiny gemstones chips set in it that winked and flashed in the light. As he followed the lines with his eyes his head started to feel opened as if he had suddenly found a door to a large expanse that he had not known about, should not have known about. In this expanse the pattern made sense somehow, it flared to life and glowed with a warm reassuring light as it hung there in his mind’s eye. John was only vaguely aware of the shop shaking as if it were in an earthquake, even less aware of Owen yelling at him, so he never saw the punch coming. There was only the sudden soothing darkness of unconsciousness. The pleasant nothingness was quickly pushed away by the sharp smell of ammonia. John sat up with a start to find Owen kneeling on the floor next to him, an open first aid kit on the ground between them.

"What the f**k is wrong with you, kid? Can't you read silently?"

"Read silently?" John suddenly realized his jaw was extremely sore. "Did you punch me?"

"Hell yes I punched your dumb a*s. You were about to blow up my store. Your teacher never taught you to read without casting?"

"Teacher? Casting?" John got to his feet unsteadily and looked around the shop to see that most of the display cases were cracked, there were numerous items on the floor, and several of the florescent lights flickered uncertainly. "What the f**k are you talking about!?"

A look of realization washed over Owen's face, and it was quickly followed by a sad and somber expression that matched his tone when he finally spoke. "No one taught you? No one showed you? What's your name kid?"

"John, John Carter."

"I want you to watch this closely, John." Own put his hand on the cracked glass of a display case. It rippled, and there was the sound of glass breaking, except the cracks seemed to go backwards, and the glass was suddenly good as new. John stood slack jawed and started to wonder if perhaps it was not too late to stop all the craziness that suddenly had appeared in his life. "It's magic, and you can do it too. When you focused on the spell engraved in the ring, you started to cast it."

"Magic?"

"Magic."

"F**k."

Chapter 9

Owen locked the front door of the shop and closed the shades. He righted the stool behind the counter and pulled another one out of a closet for John. When they were both seated amid the clutter of the once orderly shop Owen asked; "So what do you wanna know first?" John tried to make sense of things to form a question but couldn't. He suddenly felt like a kid again, like the world was too big and strange for him understand, or know where to ever start asking questions. After a long while, all that formed was what John had been feeling all along.

"Why me?"

"I can't answer that one, normally you need to be shown how to do it and even then not everyone can. Orphans, people who learn without teachers are rare, real rare. But it happens, usually to people who are unbalanced." Owen paused to rub the stubble on his chin in a contemplative manner. "I've never meet an orphan before, but I've read that sometimes trauma can wake the ability up. Open your eyes as it were." John felt the urge to tell Owen about the strange book and the dreams, but something prevented him. He knew it was connected that it had to be connected, but it was like he couldn't look directly at it. He couldn't put it all in one place at the same time, and it confused him. So much of what had been going on lately confused him on so many levels that he was willing to let it go.

"How does it work?"

"Well..." Owen rubbed his hands together extremely slowly in a gesture that John eventually learned indicated he was thinking deeply. "Most spells take the form of patterns and most of them are too complex to easily understand. But, once you learn one you can visualize it, direct it, and control it. It takes years of practice and is dangerous as hell."

"Okay, but how does it work? There has to be some logic to it."

"It's called magic for reason. If we understood how it worked, we'd call it something else. There have been a lot of talented minds over the years, and no one has ever been able to explain it so that it makes sense with science or anything else. I agree, it has to work somehow, no one’s figured it out though."

"Are there a lot of...."

"Mages. Most of us prefer the term Mage."

"Mage." The word felt old and too simple to explain the vastness of the new world before John. "Are there many mages?"

"No, there are maybe three hundred or so around the world, counting students. The number gets smaller every year, and it's easy to see a time when the skills and spells are lost altogether."

"Why?"

"That's part of the long story, and a lot of it has been lost, and some it is myth, it may all be lies. I don't know, but it's the history my father taught me, and it matches what others have said."

"Owen, this s**t is crazy. I need to know what’s going on....."

Owen sighed, produced a rumpled pack of cigarettes and offered one to John, he refused. Owen struck a match and started talking....

Chapter 10

Owen explained;

History as you know it is not complete. It’s very different from the history you know in many ways, and not quite for the best. There were a lot of evil things done and there is more than time working to hide it. So there are holes in it, and there a lot of myths and lies to contend with when it comes to what mages know. But we do know enough and have written accounts to give us a general idea of things. Every culture and society has a tradition of gods and heroes going back to ancient times. Most of the time those people were mages, extraordinarily powerful mages. They separated themselves from mankind and governed from above as they saw fit and that was seldom for the betterment of mankind.

Now not every single one had good and kind intentions towards humanity, there always have been a few a******s that have to screw things up for others. Wars between mages were fought with armies of people devoted to the ideas that their masters were gods. There were sacrifices in the name of false masters, in every shape and form. There was an abuse of every kind being done, and few were innocent.

Students were taken on and taught, but they were expected to obey their masters and teachers without question. This is where things get questionable, and not much is known for certain. Not long before the birth of Christ there was a promising student named Moloch. His teacher was currently claiming the title of Aries, the god of war, he was by every account a real prick. When Moloch refused to follow a command, there is some debate as to what that order was... Some say it was to kill the woman he loved and others it was to destroy a village. Either way, he disobeyed. As punishment Aries killed his family. Not just his parents, brothers and sisters. His entire family. Anyone who was in any way related to Moloch was hunted down and killed in horrific ways. His blood line was ended.

Moloch went insane according to what we know. He broke into several libraries and stole the strongest spells from the greatest mages of the time. There was outrage and Moloch was declared a criminal and a traitor to be killed on sight. He vanished though. No one could find him, and the search continued for years. Just when everyone assumed he was dead, he showed up again. He was an old man by then and according to legends he had disfiguring scars all over his body as if he had been in numerous battles or tortured, perhaps both. What’s more he was mad. He wandered the world talking about the evils of magic and false gods, that men unwittingly were bringing upon themselves a great terror. He refused to use magic and refused to eat meat of any kind, back then that was seen as madness. There was a lot of talk about where he had vanished to and what to do about him, but no one had clear answers on either. Aries had been killed, and the title taken by another mage that felt sorry for Moloch (they had studied together). So eventually Aries announced that Moloch was spared but he was to be left to wander in madness and misery. As time dragged on. There was a small band of people that seemed to pity and care for Moloch but since none of them were mages no one cared. After a long time, Moloch finally died and according to legend his dying breath was a warning that magic and false gods would bring "the Terrors from beyond" to the world and mankind would burn.

Not much was thought about it, but the people who had been caring for him formed a cult and wandered preaching Moloch's message. There were not many of them, but they claimed to have a way to save mankind. This caught a few people's attention, so one of the cultists was brought before a group of mages. The cultist had a scroll on her with a spell that when read prevented people from awakening and being able to perform magic. It was simple and hidden in a complex text so no one would know what it was even as they read it and learned it, but it was there and it worked. It terrified the hell out of the mages, so they did the only thing they knew how to do... They started killing. They hunted the cultist all over the world and wiped them all out, they thought it was over.

Then when Christianity started to grow and spread, the same spell was found hidden in the bible. Over time, it was found in other religious texts around the world. There were wars waged to suppress the knowledge and destroy it, but that only spread it further. Banned ideas have a way of being attractive. Students who could learn magic became even scarcer and mages were hunted. Very quickly those who claimed they were gods were running for their lives and hiding their libraries. A lot of knowledge was lost, and even more lives were destroyed.

So today there are only a handful of mages around the world and fewer students every year. Mages guard their secrets jealously and only pass them to their most trusted students, if at all. So much of what we once knew has been lost, mages and magic are extremely close to vanishing from the world. Despite this and despite the terrible things in our history today’s mages cling to those vain and greedy ways. Many still fight over territories, even though they have no real control over them. Students are still dealt with harshly, and almost every single mage curses the name of Moloch, even though he was right that magic would bring nothing but evil to mankind.

Chapter 11

Owen stubbed out his cigarette, his fifth by John’s count. They both sat silently for a moment. Each contemplating life in their own way. John envisioned the wonder and horror that must have been visited upon mankind by angry and petty hearts and recalled the gravity that his grandfathers letter carried and the implication that no one seemed willing to take the burden of that power. Such terrible things had been done by men without magic; the spoken word alone had often enough been enough to drive entire nations to madness. John was suddenly ashamed to be a part of humanity. Sitting across from John, Owen saw it all remarkably differently. The old ways, the traditions of secrecy and abused power were a dark stain upon the history of mankind, not just mages. They were after all simply men and women who by some poorly understood mechanism could do the impossible, no wonder the power went to their heads. Owen thought of his friends and how they had tried for a new way where mages were servants of mankind and held to the highest ethics. He knew though that it was a doomed ideal if for no other reason than there were so few students and of those there were even fewer of a like mind to better mankind. Power, he mused, does after all corrupt.

“If I don't want to learn, don't want this power, can I turn it off?” John suddenly felt as if he had been thrust into far more than he could ever handle. He didn't even want to contemplate if he could handle the powers of a god.

“No, you can't undo this. You can't even ignore it. Do you dream of patterns like the one in the ring?”

“Yeah.” John’s voice sounded weak and hopeless.

“That's cause you can cast spells in your dreams. Most of us can and have learned to block it out.” Owen searched his rumpled cigarette pack for one last smoke. John was relieved when he came up empty because he hated the smell. “One way or another you got to learn to handle this. You don't have to learn everything. At the very least though you gotta learn to protect yourself and protect others from yourself. When you were looking at that ring, you damn near blew us and this shop to hell.”

John slumped as he felt the burden settle squarely on his shoulders. He wanted to cry, but that ever present social conditioning told him that men don't cry. It was all too much though, his father’s death, unexpected unemployment, no money, and now the burden of responsibilities and power that he could hardly fathom. A few stray tears slipped down to his chin, and he became enraged. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. All he had wanted was to live a quiet happy life with Barb. The death of that dream had unleashed the gates to this hell. That was a lie though, and John knew it somewhere deep inside himself, he just couldn't admit it yet. There is no point in second guessing life, but John had too many regrets to see that yet.

“Come on kid. It could be worse.”

“It is worse. Some of this is stuff I got when my dad died last week and here I am pawning it because I got fired and can't pay my rent.” John felt like a hard luck case on the side of the road with a sign asking for mercy, any kind of mercy.

“Yea. It's worse.” Admitted Owen. He knew where this was going. Knew what he had to, and should do. He hated it though. His own kids were proof that he had not been a particularly good father, and he doubted he could be an exemplary teacher. He also resented whatever it was that had brought this kid through his door. As a mage he knew there was no such thing as truly random chance, everything had a cause and effect. Sometimes those long strings of cause and effect could do extraordinary things all on their own. “You need a teacher, and you need a job.”

“Yeah.”

“I need help here in the shop. It ain’t easy, and I won't be an easy boss, but I pay fair. While we're at it I'll be your teacher, as little or as much as you wanna learn, I'll show you.” It was all too easy to say it. “That means you're my responsibility though, you screw up, and it comes back to me, so no f*****g around.”

“Sure” John was grateful for the job and was afraid at the same time.

“You can keep this crap you were gonna pawn especially that ring. Things like that used to be passed down along family lines and even without the spell it's damn valuable.”

“What does the spell do?”

“It's a sort of fire bolt spell. Things like that were kept secret within families.” Owen paused for a couple of heartbeats. “Be here at ten tomorrow. We open late and close late so be ready to put in a long day. And kid?”

“Yeah?”

“From now on you call me 'sir'.” Owen had doubts about taking the kid in, but there wasn’t much he could do. The kid wouldn’t last long on his own and he might hurt someone else while he was screwing up his own life. Better to keep an eye on him and do what he could. Owen stubbed out his cigarette, his fifth by John’s count. They both sat silently for a moment. Each contemplating life in their own way. John envisioned the wonder and horror that must have been visited upon mankind by angry and petty hearts and recalled the gravity that his grandfathers letter carried and the implication that no one seemed willing to take the burden of that power. Such terrible things had been done by men without magic; the spoken word alone had often enough been enough to drive entire nations to madness. John was suddenly ashamed to be a part of humanity. Sitting across from John, Owen saw it all remarkably differently. The old ways, the traditions of secrecy and abused power were a dark stain upon the history of mankind, not just mages. They were after all simply men and women who by some poorly understood mechanism could do the impossible, no wonder the power went to their heads. Owen thought of his friends and how they had tried for a new way where mages were servants of mankind and held to the highest ethics. He knew though that it was a doomed ideal if for no other reason than there were so few students and of those there were even fewer of a like mind to better mankind. Power, he mused, does after all corrupt.

“No, you can't undo this. You can't even ignore it. Do you dream of patterns like the one in the ring?”

“Yeah.” John’s voice sounded weak and hopeless.

“Come on kid. It could be worse.”

“Yeah.”

“Sure” John was grateful for the job and was afraid at the same time.

“You can keep this crap you were gonna pawn especially that ring. Things like that used to be passed down along family lines and even without the spell it's damn valuable.”

“What does the spell do?”

“Yeah?”

Chapter 12

Owen didn't lie, he was not an easy boss, and it only took John the first day to figure that out. When work started it started, and there were no questions about it. What took John longer to figure out was Owen's sense of humor he had a supply of dry and witty comments that John seldom had a response for. His humor seemed to be part hazing, part gallows, and part cynical wisdom. When it came to magic though there was no joking around and Owen taught him with a deadly serious tone and kept him aware of the dangers to himself and others.

John learned quickly how to read spell patterns without casting and was relieved to learn how not to cast in his sleep. Since Owen had told him it was possible, he had lived in dread fear of it. He spent the first few nights lying awake in bed totally exhausted and afraid to fall asleep because he might incinerate himself or do something else more embarrassing. The last lesson of that first week though was one that immediately caught John’s attention and fascinated him.

“Every mage can see patterns.” Owen fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “They don't always take the shapes you think, and you might not always literally see them. Sometimes you'll hear a few beats ahead of the music, especially blues, classical and jazz. Others you'll see where things will land like leaves or snow. However, the best example is cards, shuffle these.” Owen handed John an unopened pack of playing cards. John opened the cards and shuffled the stiff cards while Owen continued to talk. “The strange part of it is that it's the same for everyone. Casting a spell is like stepping into some vast internal space and seeing a pattern is like reading a newspaper in the mirror.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah.”

“So..”

“Don't bother kid, you'll get it when you get it.”

Owen had a habit of half explaining things that drove John nuts. Not just about magic but about everything. When John was learning to clean the shop he had asked where the mop bucket was, and Owen had said; “it's where it is” John had assumed that he had lost it or forgotten about it in the cavernous basement where Owen stored just about everything. He had searched for an hour before giving up and taking a moment to eat his lunch. The mop bucket was in the refrigerator, no explanations were offered, and no questions were asked, even though it had not been there earlier. For some reason everything was a puzzle and could only be learned as it happened.

“So deal out a game of solitaire.” Owen's ever present cigarette barely clung to his lip as he spoke. John had to think for a few moments before dealing, card games were not his thing. Soon enough though he had seven neat rows of cards lined up on the counter top. “Just watch for now.” Owen cracked his knuckles and set about the cards with light fingers. Before he flipped a card, he called out what it would be without missing once. In what John knew had to be record time he had finished the game without missing a card.

“What the f**k....”

“Shuffle the cards again. Seven times, no more no less.” Owen watched John for a heartbeat or two before starting to talk in a careful tone as if reciting a poem from childhood. “There is no disorder, there is no chaos. The universe is essentially a giant clockwork mechanism. The gears will turn as they have and as they should right to the very end. It's easy to see the pattern and order with planets and such, but here on this human level things get messy. There is just too much going on and too much changing to be able to see the order. The only thing that is not clockwork in the universe is life, especially crazy humans.” Owen paused to light another nasty cigarette. “We are the mice in the clockwork! We can run around and s**t on everything all we want, and it won't change the way the planets turn. The thing is, that even the chaos, we create has predictable outcomes and effects. Radio waves follow the laws of physics, cars, smoke, and cards.... All obey the rules, even if we don't. That's why I can do this.” Owen called each card as he flipped it over, not missing a single one, not even the joker John had slipped in while he was talking.

“Music doesn't follow the laws of physics...”

“No, but good music is math and repeats sequences.”

“How do I do it?”

“Don't close your eyes or use your hands, that’s a terrible habit to learn so don't start, but go back to that large empty place you saw when you looked at the ring.

John let his eyes lose focus and reached back inside himself and found it was amazingly easy to go back through that door to the vastness inside. What was not easy was staying there. It was terrifying and empty. John fought down the urge to fill it with something anything. “Got it.”

“Good, now picture the deck of cards while you are looking at them.”

John suddenly saw that the description of reading in the mirror was accurate. It was as if he had two contradicting images and one didn't make sense. “Okay, but it takes a lot of effort.”

“You'll get used to it. You don't have a choice. Now is the first card red or black?”

As John thought about them and as he visualized the deck of cards they became transparent, with tiny wisps of color drifting away from each one and mingling with the world around them. “What are the bits of color....”

“Those are threads, we'll get to that later. Red or black?”

“Black.” Owen flipped the card over and smiled. Without prompting John called the rest of the cards without error or hesitation.

“How does it feel?” Owen straightened the cards and started to slowly shuffle them.

“Amazing.” John let go of the vastness and was dizzy as if he had stood up too fast. Owen laughed at him in a good-natured sort of way.

“That's another thing to get the swing of. Here take the cards, go home and practice. By tomorrow night, I want you calling cards by name out of three mixed decks.” John looked worried about the challenge but was also still shocked by his new found ability.

As Owen watched him John got ready to leave, he debated stopping what would happen, what seemed inevitable, when people learned this simple trick. There was always that truly human reaction to take advantage of this skill and see how far it could go, sometimes at the race track, or sports, but most commonly at casinos. It never went well and was sometimes dangerous. After all, mages are mortal and could still get their knee caps broken if they won too much at the wrong casino.

“The kids gotta learn.” Owen said to himself as he set about closing the shop for the night.

Chapter 13

By the end of the week, John had no problems with cards, dice, or most any other sort of game of chance. He had shocked himself by predicting the lotto drawing as he watched it but was disappointed when he couldn't predict it hours ahead. When he asked Owen about it, Owen shrugged and said “I don't know all the answers kid, but we got limits.”

Limits or no John knew what he had and was starting to see that perhaps this magic thing was not all bad. When Owen gave him his first paycheck that Friday, it felt like the keys to the kingdom. It was small and had John not had grand designs on the meager amount it would have hardly kept him alive, but Owen had shown him how to make it work for him, or so John thought.

John left the shop at nine and had the check in his bank by nine thirty via a nearby ATM. He went home and set about getting ready for the next day by ironing his dress shirt and polishing his good shoes. He had spent time at the library on the computers researching all the casinos near Chicago, and there were a surprising number of them. He decided that his best bet was to stay as far away from home as possible without going too far. He didn't want any questions raised to close to home. In the end, he decided his first target would be a river boat casino out in Aurora. He could get there by train easy enough, and odds were he would never go that way again. As he checked the train schedule and set his alarm clock, John felt like a bank robber right before the big score.

Despite his excitement, he slept well. In the morning John wouldn't remember his dreams, he would only know he awoke feeling centered and ready for the day. It was for the best that the dream of Sandra and the call center did not stay with him, no matter how harmless it was.

Stepping off the train in Aurora, John was disappointed. He had expected to be able to hail a cab but couldn't, he was used to there being a cab every five minutes. With a measure of shame, he realized he was starting to think like someone who lived in the city. He walked most of the way to the casino before he found what he felt was the only cab in the whole town.

John’s feet hurt from the walk, there were salt stains on his shoes and pants from the walk in the mush and splatter on the sidewalks. It may have been spring, but the sidewalks were still getting a regular dose of salt. In all reality John no longer felt like he was looking his best and felt slightly deflated as he walked into the casino. The throngs of people clustering around slot machines and other games of chance that early in the day drove home to him that this was a place of desperation.

People won every now and then, but as someone famously pointed out, on a long enough timeline the house always wins. So under the flashing lights and behind the noise of electronic and natural excitement there was a determination to ignore what came next. Forget about the lost money that was meant for something practical like savings, the rent, or food for the kids. This was a place to win a place to have fun! John did not need his new-found abilities as a mage to see the ugliness hidden in plain sight.

Ignoring his revelation and revulsion, John approached a black jack table and sat down with the few other people already there. He trusted himself with cards, he had every faith in himself, he was best with cards. Still, he put his money down with a hesitation he had not expected. Two hundred dollars was two maybe three weeks worth of food to him, and it was quickly turned into chips that were worthless outside the casino. A good portion of John that still doubted magic and still thought this was all some screwed up nightmare promptly panicked, but he stayed calm by telling himself to stick to the plan. So he did.

He lost a few hands, and won a few others, but he made sure to lose the majority of his money before he started winning for real. Even then he was careful to lose large amounts of money from time to time. After a while, the dealer got switched out with a new one and John took this to mean they were watching him, so he wandered the floor for a while. After a while, he landed by the craps table and started playing. He won and lost in spurts but always made sure he won just a bit more than he lost, he didn't count his chips, he just played. Switching games every now and then and even pausing to have a small meal before going back for more. It was late afternoon before he decided to count his chips and was shocked to find he had just over forty five thousand dollars. Much more than he had planned to win, it was time to go.

Cashing his chips out was not difficult, the young woman behind the old style bankers bars was happy to get the manager to cash him out. The manager tried to convince him to stay for free in the casinos attached hotel and check out the show that evening, but John politely refused. He did wonder what kind of show they could attract to a small casino in a town like Aurora. At the exact moment that John was about to tell the manager to back off he handed John a tax form so he could account for his winnings on his taxes. Then came the big question:

“Cash or check, sir?”

John for the first time all day realized he had not truly thought this out. They already had his name and information on the tax form, but he felt something dangerous about accepting a check. Cash was begging for other more obvious issues. One does not get on a Chicago train or bus with a bag full of small unmarked bills and expect to reach their destination with anything but an empty bag.

“Cash, please.” Said John, despite his reservations.

“How would you like that, sir?”

“Hundreds, please.” John may well have asked for a bag of gold coins, but he had come to the conclusion that money can be lost and made again. So the manager counted out an extremely large stack of hundreds for John with the aid of a small machine and several security guards who seemed to have come from nowhere.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“Yeah, can I buy a briefcase to put it all in?”

The manager smartly plucked a hundred dollar bill from the pile and vanished into a back room and returned with a remarkably nondescript and cheap briefcase that lacked a lock. John piled the money into it and made for the exit after thanking everyone for their help. As he was leaving though, he was struck by a rational bit of paranoia, and he made a quick stop at the men's bathroom.

After making sure he was alone, John did what he thought was sane and reasonable for someone in his position, and hid money everywhere he could think of. In his shoes, socks, underwear, and a couple bills in every pocket. He had gotten carried away and won too much; this was not going to go unnoticed. He found himself wishing he knew how make himself invisible or how to teleport. There had to be a dozen different ways magic could save his a*s, he just didn't know any and had no way of even guessing. It made John feel foolish and frustrated. Sure he had access to great and mysterious powers that were beyond belief, was this going to stop him from getting mugged, or from being stupid enough to do this in the first place? Apparently not.

John walked to the cab station in front of the casino and was quickly on his way to the train station. He wanted to look behind him, he wanted to look to see if there was some menacing black car full of goons following him, he was too scared to though. At the train station he paid the cab driver with a hundred dollar bill, it was all he had, and didn't wait for change. He tried the doors to the small station, but they were locked. John jogged up to the platform and looked at the posted schedule, despite the chill he was sweating. The next train would arrive in ten minutes. Just as he thought he might at least make it downtown before he got mugged, his head got slammed into the bulletin board, only the fact it was mounted on a concrete wall stopped his head from going through it.

“How'd you do it, f**k ball?” Said a voice behind him.

“Urgggghhh?” John tried to ask what was going on, but whoever was behind him was still making a slow but determined effort to put his head through the wall.

“You can do better than that.” Said a second voice. “We'd at least like your answers to be in English.” There was some laughter as John was pulled away from the bulletin board, and then was slammed into it again before being allowed to fall to the ground. He looked up at two men dressed in suits, very nice suits, who were laughing at him in a way that he reminded him of every high school bully that had ever been. John was scared but unimpressed.

“Relax, F**k ball.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions.” John made a move to sit up and was promptly kicked back to the ground.

“How the f**k did you win so much money at so many different games?”

“I cheated?”

“We know that, F**k ball. We just want to know how.”

“Magic.” John figured it was the truth, and there was no way they would believe it so he may as well tell them. A bad idea with poor instant results when the one with the limited vocabulary kicked him in the balls.

“I don't have time for you or for this s**t. If I ever see you in my casino again, I will kill you. Kill you slowly.” There was a long pause and through his pain John could hear a train in the distance. “You gotta pay taxes this time though.” The less verbal of the goons opened the briefcase and pulled out a handful of bills, the foul mouthed goon wrenched John’s arm till he gasped in pain. The other one shoved the handful of bills in his mouth till he choked on them. He could hear them laughing as they walked away with the briefcase and the approaching train slowly drowned their voices out. John felt stupid and powerless.

Chapter 14

John dreaded showing up for work that Monday. He knew the bruises on his face were not going to go without comment by Owen. He expected some lecture about how abusing power was foolish or perhaps even about not being greedy, no matter the topic he was not looking forward to it. So when he opened the door to the shop and Owen looked up from his ever present book by the register he was shocked to see a slow smile spread across his face.

“What casino did you go to, kid?” Owen said with a light chuckle.

“The one out in Aurora.”

“A good choice, how much did you win?”

“About forty five thousand.” John wanted to be proud but instead felt more like he had been caught masturbating by an elderly nun.

“Not a bad.” Owen allowed a hint of approval to slip into his voice. “How much did you get to keep though?”

“Including the two grand they tried to shove down my throat I got away with about ten.”

“Ya hide the rest in your socks?”

“Yeah, most of it was in my underwear though. Good thing too, it softened the kick to my nuts.”

Owen couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing. He was happy John had survived, happy that he had shown some brains and gone out of town, but mostly he was happy to see he was taking it with a grain of salt. Owen had not known John long, but he saw enough to know life had not been good to the kid. John was strong; he just didn't know it yet.

“When I was a kid my father warned my brother and I against it. Told us flat out he would kick our asses if we did it. Then when we called him for help from the train station he told us he had done the same damn fool thing.” Owen put a bookmark between the pages of his book and got off his stool. “Its human nature and we gotta learn that there is a price for cheating or being too greedy. Lock the door, kid, I wanna show you something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Owen led John into the back room and unlocked the door that led to the upstairs apartments. John knew Owen lived there but had never been invited up before and didn't know what to expect, though he figured it would stink of cigarettes and be filled with books. On those counts, he was not disappointed.

Every room had at least two bookcases filled to overflowing, and in places there were stacks behind chairs and in corners, it was the most books John had ever seen outside a library. Text books on lost wax casting, chemistry, physics, and forensic science mixed in with novels, biographies, and histories. It gave John a new respect for the knowledge and wisdom that Owen possessed. It did stink of cigarettes but not as bad as he had expected. It was tidy, and there were no pictures of any sort and everything had a utilitarian feel about it. A few chairs, a simple reading desk, another small desk with a computer on it, but no TV anywhere in sight.

“You own a computer?” Asked Owen as he sat down in front of his and tapped a few keys, bringing the machine to life.

“No, I've been learning on the ones at the library.”

“Put it on the list of things you need right away. Without one you are cut off from the modern world and you will always be caught by surprise. It's amazing what you can find just looking around different web sites.” Owen skillfully tapped keys and maneuvered the mouse till a graph showing a series of different lines appeared each with sharply contrasting peaks and valleys. “This is my stock trading program. They are easy enough to set up and use. You won't be able to predict anything more than a day or so in advance, but most times that's all you need. You won't get rich overnight, but you won't attract a lot of attention either.” As Owen talked, John saw that he was going to be spending his ill-gotten gains on a computer, sooner, rather than later.

“Is this how most mages make their money?”

“No. Some use their talents to become smugglers and others make counterfeit art or money. The list of ways to make money with magic is long and impressive, but most of them attract attention eventually. Either the money starts to pile up, or people get mad you are cutting into their cheese. Part of the reason each mage has their own region is to cut down on fights over money and turf.” Owen paused to rub the ever-present stubble on his chin. “The coin of the realm is not raw power, its money, and eventually it attracts attention one way or another.

Chapter 15

There are times when we wake up and realize that our lives are so truly different from what they were a short time ago and so seriously different from what we ever expected them to be. We suddenly feel as if we have been catapulted into some random direction and are more shocked to find ourselves at ease in this new environment rather than lost and disorientated. This is where John found himself a month after his misadventure at the casino.

His daily tasks at the pawn shop had become a natural flow and habit. While Owen had not yet let him handle cash or deal with customers, it was clear that he was slowly grooming him to. That was fine in John’s mind because he wanted to take his time, he felt no rush or pressure to be a star employee. It was enough that he showed up on time, did as he was asked to, and knew when to keep his mouth shut. It was all extremely different from working at the call center where there was a constant pressure for “performance improvement”. It was such a change that John didn't mind cleaning the toilets.

The daily lessons were another matter. Here, John felt not only a deadly seriousness about how much he had to learn but what was at risk. His experience with the thugs had taught him that the chain of cause and effect is long, subtle, and often brutal. So while he understood that the same pattern that lit a cigarette could set a building ablaze that at no point was one less dangerous than the other. He also learned a couple of other things about magic that shocked him and terrified him; he was good at it, and he enjoyed it.

When he learned a new pattern or successfully cast a complicated one he not only felt a measure of pride in his new found ability, but he felt connected. It was as if he had finally found his place or niche in life but in a deeper sense that went beyond John's sense of himself. To him it felt as if had become grounded with his family history and traditions and yet it also bound him to a sense of a higher purpose. He at last felt as if he found something that he could do that would make a difference, not just in his life, but if he was careful, for the world. It was a new and powerful feeling for John, one that he realized might have gone to his head except for one fact; he still had to clean the toilet at the shop every day.

It was this combination of a humbling experience, awe inspiring knowledge, and self discovery that had lead John to start keeping a journal. Not just of his daily experiences, but also of patterns he had learned and ideas he had about magic. He also kept track of his fruitless efforts to unlock the mysterious golden book that started the whole adventure. John had no way to know what his efforts would produce and to him that was part of the fun of it, recording it all so that perhaps someday his distant grandchildren might read it as he had read the letter. He liked the idea. He shouldn't have.

Chapter 16

“Can I use magic to turn into a hawk? Or maybe a shark?”

“Why the hell would you want to turn into a shark?” Owen could see why a hawk was appealing but was truly offended by the shark idea. Something about it seemed too sinister.

“Sharks are bad a*s. Nothing eats them. I could swim around, and nothing would mess with me.” John knew how childish the idea sounded, but he couldn't help himself.

“It doesn't matter because you can't shape shift or alter other living things.”

“Really? Why?”

“Again, no one knows. Look at my pattern and tell me what you see.”

John hardly had to think about it anymore and seldom got dizzy, he was truly getting used to it. While Owen would never tell him, he was impressed. John looked at Owens pattern. It was a mass of overlapping and shifting curves, spirals and lines, there were threads leaping out of it and into it like multicolored ghosts of their outside influences. In the center of it was a rotating angular light that flashed and changed color as it interacted with the patterns. It was all ordered and eternally moving.

“What’s that light near your heart? Your life force?”

“That light is associated with life, but it can sometimes be found on items that have been altered and locked. If you find one be careful, it's likely to be old and dangerous.”

“Locked?” John thought of that troubling golden book.

“As in it can't be changed, it's fixed and locked. Someone may have once known how to do it, I'm sure of that. But, like so much else about magic it was forgotten, destroyed or never passed on.”

John paused and thought about what this meant and quickly saw it was another mixed blessing of this strange ability. He would never shape shift, and that was perhaps for the best, but there was another question... “What about healing people? Fixing their patterns?”

“No way I know of to do that.” Owen shifted on his stool and started patting his pockets in search of a pack of cigarettes. This was becoming another wandering question and answer session.

“I've been wondering... Was Jesus a mage?”

“I've wondered about that a lot, and I don't know. I think the important thing is that no matter what he was he said a lot of smart things and tried to put people on a better path. If it worked out how he wanted, is anybody’s guess.” Owen lit the most rumpled cigarette that John had ever seen.

“So what about God? Doesn't this mean there could be a mage who...”

“Take it easy, kid.” Owen flicked ashes into an ashtray. “If there is a God or not...”

“But...”

“As a mage we work with patterns and connections. We have to see things differently, so try this on for size: Hydrogen is one of the most common and simple elements in the universe. It is mathematically consistent throughout the universe, no matter where you look. Hydrogen is hydrogen; there is no deviation in it. Consistency of that kind is not an accident.”

“So there is a God?”

“I don't know if there is or not, but I doubt he was a mage. We got limits kid.

“I know it seems so powerful at first, so limitless.” John looked out the gated windows at the cars rushing past on the street outside. “Then the more you learn the more you see there are limits and costs.”

“The more you know the more you can do. You'll see as you get older and learn, there is something about knowledge and experience that makes it easier. Everyone has a different limit tot their ability. I don’t know how and why for sure. But, it seems the smarter more knowledgeable a mage the more powerful they are. There has to be a limit somewhere though.”

“Why?”

“Because some idiot would have already done something stupid like pull the moon out of orbit to impress a girl.” Owen's sense of human nature was best described as morbidly hopeful. He wanted the best in people and often saw it, but knew that if there was a poor choice to be made some fool was gonna do it.

“It all starts to make sense and then it falls apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can easily enough set someone on fire or freeze them to death, but we can never heal someone? Mages posed as gods, and we see proof there is a real God in the patterns, but we are just as confused as everyone else...” John’s voice held a note of despair that Owen had not heard since the day he first met him.

“Kid, you're not seeing it right.” Owen understood all too well how he felt. “We don't know how to heal someone. That knowledge got lost. The sad fact is that it is easier to kill, destroy and be an a*****e than it is to create, heal, and do the right thing. The hard way is to get up and work for something, magic.... Is the easy way out, its cheating. As for God... I don't know what to tell you.” Owen stubbed out his cigarette before telling John to go home for the night. John cleaned up and put on his coat, his head spinning with the complexities of the universe. As he watched John leave, Owen considered many of those same complexities and wondered when he had stopped exploring them so fervently.

Chapter17

John's journal was fairly new and yet it was page after page of patterns, he couldn't bring himself to call them spells. He still felt there had to be a science behind it all, perhaps something at the quantum level, whatever that was. John was not stupid but there were times when he was painfully aware of his limited education and often felt like everyone knew something he didn't. He was self aware enough though to see that this was part of the reason he had thrown himself into learning magic so hard and become so committed to it despite his initial reservations.

He flipped through the pages of his journal. Patterns for fire of various types, freezing objects, making things lighter or heavier, and John’s favorite, moving things from a distance. Whenever he pulled something across the room to himself, and caught it in mid air, he felt like a Jedi knight straight out of the movies. However, all those feelings collapsed when he opened the golden book and the enigma it represented.

When he looked at the pattern of it things only got more confusing. The pattern when it was closed, was simple and straightforward, unchanging, as if it were glued in place. He felt that this was set up to conceal the inside, a cover pasted in place. When he opened it, and looked at the patterns inside.... It was amazing, to say the least. There were six bright angular lights locked into a three dimensional cube that locked away large shadowy portions of patterns. The pattern of the lock was exposed, but it was difficult to decipher because it was so compressed. Even the pattern of it was pressed into an almost impossibly flat and tiny space that altered only slightly when he put the key into the book. Everything about the book puzzled him and convinced him he was missing something. Even the writing on the pages themselves frustrated him. The words, or letters, looked like shapes, dots, lines and sometimes almost like Latin or Greek letters. He had spent days at the library searching and wandering the internet looking for anything like them, only to end up with more questions.

The only thing about The Book, John was starting to even think of it in capital letters, that he had discovered that he could understand troubled him. There were thin golden threads that were tied to the locking points on The Books pattern. They were very fine and hard to see even by magical standards, he had found them through sheer persistence, and they left the pattern if and when the lock was opened or the pages exposed. The part that made John uneasy, and feel a deep sense of caution about looking closely at The Book was that they stretched out to the horizon, well past where he could see or follow. To whom or what was the question that made him hid the book in an unused air vent by his door, along with the key and the ring. John was much more careless with his journal and kept it next to his bed by his alarm clock.

Chapter 18

Jimmy didn't think of himself as a bad guy. He was though. He thought of himself as someone that people didn't like and that made his life difficult. It was true, few people liked Jimmy, but not for the reasons he imagined. He also just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time for most of his life. We can leave that up for debate. No matter how you cut it though Jimmy was a felon, nothing glorious mind you. He had been to jail for assault several times, had a habit of getting drunk and beating his sometimes girlfriend, frequently drug supplier. There were of course the things he did and never got caught for, but smiled about when no one was looking. The fact that he was on the run from charges relating to several young college girls who felt he had taken advantage of them with the aid of drugs and alcohol only added to his charm. It was also why he was in Chicago doing maintenance work for his uncle off the books. He didn't think of himself as a bad guy though, just unlucky.

When his cell phone rang it was bad luck again as far as Jimmy was concerned. His girl had come home flush with money, high on at least four illicit drugs, chain smoking and tossing back beers. Money made her happy and horny, a combination that always worked out for Jimmy. So when his cell phone rang, again, and he saw it was his uncle he knew his fun was over, and he had to answer it.

“F*****g what?”

“Don't answer the phone like that, makes you sound ignorant.” Jimmy's uncle thought of himself as a nice guy and very sensibly hated Jimmy.

“Hello, how can I help you today?” The sarcasm was so heavy it ruined any chance of comedy.

“A pipe burst in the building at Kenmore and Bryn Mawr. We got a lot of work and clean up to do. Get your tools and get dressed.”

“Who's to say I'm not already dressed?” It was after all almost one in the afternoon.

“Be there in half an hour and be sober.” The line went dead before Jimmy could even start to say something. He turned to tell his girl the bad news only to find she had passed out face down on the bed. He contemplated her naked backside as she snored; she had ended up in an awkward position with her arms to one side and her knees half under her so that her a*s was raised slightly but triumphantly in the air. He had seen better, he'd had better, but this was what was in front of him and it really wasn't all that bad. He could be a little late for a good cause, and she didn't even have to wake up for it. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy, he just wasn't so particular about how he got what he wanted.

Chapter 19

Jimmy was late of course and didn't care. The only thing that upset him was that he was closer to sober than he wanted to be, and his uncle not only chewed him out for being late but for not showering either. He hated his uncle almost as much as he hated the sight of water running out from under doorways and down stairs in that damned apartment building. Even after they got the water shut off there was a steady stream coming from..... Hell, everywhere. The only upside to the whole thing was that he knew off the bat that his uncle was going to have to leave him alone and unsupervised in these poor people’s apartments. Since they were studio apartments mostly he didn't think he would find much, but who knows? He might get lucky again this afternoon.

It was hell though. Setting up a half dozen shop vacs to clear out the standing pools of water. Jimmy and his uncle set up makeshift barriers to keep lower floors from flooding and then making sure the shop vacs stayed emptied and running. Work, who's idea was it anyways?

Finally, they went into apartments to assess the damage and do what they could. Since most of the residents were at work still they had the run of the place, or as his uncle put it; “The responsibility of making sure these people didn't lose everything they owned.” This meant that true to Jimmy's prediction he was frequently working alone in people's homes.

The first place must have belonged to some waitress. There were restaurant uniforms scattered about and some cheap furniture, nothing much. Jimmy found her stash of bad weed in the kitchen and kept it for himself. The next place was a students, nothing there but an expensive looking PDA that had not been damaged by the water yet. That went into a plastic baggy never to be seen again by its owner. The third place was pathetic, there was nothing there. Just a bed, some cheap clothing, and small journal by the bedside. Jimmy opened the now soggy journal and flipped through it hoping to catch some small chuckle off it.

He got a lot more than a small chuckle.

What John had experienced when he opened The Book was a carefully planned introduction. A well organized effort to open a mind and plant a seed without damaging or hurting anyone. What Jimmy experienced was a series of water logged pages whose ink had started to run and blur. These patterns were very little like their original form and lacked any kind of intent or kindness to the reader. Then there is also the basic difference between Jimmy and John. Moral differences aside Jimmy had a long history of drug abuse and aberrant behavior whereas John just had poor self esteem and a bad case of depression. Next to Jimmy he was the picture of mental health. The result was predictable.

The pain started behind his eyes and was quickly spreading through his head like ants happily marching to a Disney tune. It was unbearable and beat the worst pain he had ever felt by a mile. He dropped the book and screamed, trying to claw the pain out of his head. Removing large sections of hair and scalp in the process. When that failed he started throwing up, something primal in him wanted to reject what he had seen at any cost. When that failed he threw his head back and screamed till only his voice filled his head and everything else was lost in a dull roar.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he realized that the dull roar had been the outside wall of the apartment being blasted outward in a fiery expression of his pain. Jimmy looked out over a part of town he was still getting to know and suddenly knew he was a fire god. He felt the heat in his veins and the hot power with every breath.

“What the hell happened? Are you all right?”

Jimmy turned to see his stunned uncle standing in the doorway. Pale and shaken from not only the shock of the explosion but from the sight of Jimmy standing bloody and calm in front of what was once a wall but was now an expansive view of the cities northside. He had always irritated Jimmy but now he looked small, weak, and worthless.

“F**k you.” As he spoke, he felt himself will the fire into his uncle. It was easy, easier than speaking the words. The result was satisfying. His uncle clutched his chest and struggled briefly before blood and steam erupted from his nose, ears, and mouth. He fell to the floor convulsing and trying to scream through his own boiling blood.

Chapter 20

Uptown and the North Side of Chicago are by no means quiet and peaceful. The area didn't have the reputation that the south side did. It was still rough though. The area had gone through a brief and hearty attempt at gentrification, but when the economy turned bad the area regained its gritty edge with a vengeance. Don't think that there were muggings and rapes in every alley, no city is that serious. The real story was the vast diversity of the people that lived there, not just in an ethnic sense but also in an economic sense.

BMW's parked next to cars that were a few pounds of rust held together by paint. Condo's with million dollar views of the lake and the city shared the same street as halfway homes. Facilities for the mentally ill and homeless sat next door to restaurants known for their eighty dollar steaks. People will tell you that every city is like that, but not every city is the same, and no city is like Chicago.

So residents of Chicago’s north side were used to police sirens and helicopters. There was the occasional fire in a high rise, and every so often a pipe burst in winter and froze rich and poor to the pavement together. Normally sirens and helicopters just singled to the local population to watch the evening news. This time there were explosions. Gang members used the better part of judgment and got off the streets. Average everyday people tuned to the local news or asked each other what was going on. Those who were better off oddly shared the same instinct as the gang members they loathed... And simply hid away and waited for things to quiet down. Because, say what you want about that part of the world, it is not every day there are explosions and burning bodies in the alleys. That only happened in distant lands in front of news cameras, not here, never here.

Owen and John had a very different reaction though. True they shared the dread and fear that others did, they hoped no one else got hurt, but as they sat in the shop and watched the news on TV both of them felt connected. It was too crazy and too close to home for their liking, and both suspected that someone was doing evil things with magic.

“You had better go home.” Owen used one cigarette to light another. “See what you can see.”

“The cops are all over my building, you saw the news.”

“Don't go in your building; don't admit you live there, just wander past. It's amazing what you can learn from news crews and bystanders at a crime scene. Just don't get photographed, they take pictures of the crowd sometimes.” Owen was pretty sure this was John’s fault, there were too many connections to ignore, he just wasn't sure how yet.

“I'll be careful.” John feared someone had found The Book. He also wasn't happy about the fact that he couldn't talk to Owen about it, no matter how many times he tried.

Chapter 21

John stood at the Bryn Mawr L stop looking at his building. Looking almost directly into his apartment as people in white suits with masks and goggles on wandered through his stuff and searched with assorted gear he didn't recognize. He guessed they were looking for explosives or traces of chemicals. What they would never find was what John saw in the buildings pattern and the patterns around it. Even from the L stop he could see that something bad had happened. The normally orderly pattern of the buildings wall had not only been blasted out but looked like it had been unraveled. Parts of the pattern extended out into open space and just halted or were tangled with patterns and threads around the building. One poor pigeon that must have been caught in the blast was fused to the outside of the building and not quite dead yet. He hoped the people searching his apartment wouldn't find it because it just screamed urban legend to him.

The disruption in the patterns was so severe that he was able to track them out the hole that was his apartment wall down to the roof top of the neighboring building, then roof top to roof top as the trail headed further north towards the Loyola campus. It was worse than the sloppy magic he had done on his first attempts; someone was destroying patterns, was that possible? The destruction left a visible trail as the world quickly tried to fill the void left by them. The chaos was astounding to John who had come to respect and enjoy the idea and visuals of an ordered universe.

As he tried to make sense of it the thunderous roar of another explosion rolled across the landscape and smoke leaped into the sky. It was somewhere further north, and as John was trying to see where he spotted a dark figure sailing through the air leaving a trail of ripped patterns behind it.

It was a human figure, but its patterns were all wrong. There were too many threads bisecting places that were normally gentle curves, and there were flashes of a fiery pattern that wandered throughout leaving behind damaged and altered shapes. The most troubling part though was the light inside was flickering and smooth. The normally angular light that seemed to lock and hold everything together in living objects was disfigured and unraveling. As the figure got closer, John could see the man was in pain. He came down for a landing in an alley and fell, stumbled, and launched himself into the air again. He dropped something in the alley though, its pattern was damaged, but John was afraid he knew what it was.

He ran down the stairs and across the street through traffic, ignoring the blare of horns and people yelling. He had to hurry; he didn't know who else saw the man leaping through the air or who might have seen him in the alley. It was a mixed blessing that almost everyone was hidden away from this very maniac, there was no one to report a flying killer, and there was no one to point the direction for the police. Time was of the essence in getting what he dropped, no matter how few people were out things still vanished in alleys. His heart raced, and his feet thundered on the pavement as he turned the corner into the alley. It had seemed so much closer from his vantage point on the L platform.

There in the street lay his journal, burnt around the edges and still damp from the flood waters and in some places blood. John opened it briefly and flipped through the pages. The patterns were ruined by water, the ink had run causing them to disfigure and distort. Only the briefest of glances caused John’s head to spin, and his eyes to hurt. This was quickly followed by a sense of shame and guilt, this was his fault, and people were dead. John shoved the wrinkled notebook into his coat and ran as fast he could back to the L stop and perhaps the last remaining payphone in Chicago.

Chapter 22

Owen wanted to kill the kid.

He had never been as angry in his life as he was the moment that John said it was his “journal” that had started all the commotion. He paced the full length of his apartment several times cursing himself for taking on the kid as a student. He wished he had been cold and heartless enough to let him wander off and get himself killed or sanctioned. Now as his teacher he was responsible for him, and in the long run, responsible for making sure this mess got cleaned up. It was going to attract attention and make trouble that Owen didn’t want or need. He calmed down and cleared his head smoking a cigarette; there was no point in making the situation worse. They could deal with the fallout later but right now they had solve the problem before it got worse.

Owen went down the back staircase to the basement of the building. It was his warehouse and held shelves full items gained through the pawn shop. Some of them were useless, and of no value, others were rare and could fetch a heavy sum from the right buyer. Little of it really meant anything to Owen. He walked past it all to a spot in the corner. Without a word or gesture he traced a pattern in his mind and a section of the wall faded away revealing a large safe door. He spun the combination lock a couple of times, and it opened with a satisfying click.

The safe was about the size of a large refrigerator and was compartmentalized, so there were a variety of storage spaces within. There was a long tall section that Owen pulled two shotguns out of, a small drawer that he pulled a pair of pistols out of. There were rings, books (some ancient some new), loose gems, and gold coins. The most valuable thing in the safe though was the gold tablet. It was thin, too light to be actual gold. There was writing on both sides, and along one edge it appeared to have been melted as if removed from something. An idea that scared Owen because the tablet was impervious to any magic he knew and he prided himself for knowing a lot. Who ever had made it had done so using knowledge long lost and that meant it dated to the so called “golden age”.

Owen closed the safe and resealed the cement. He took the guns to his work bench and set about cleaning them. A line from Sun Tzu's Art of War came back to him; “Weapons are tools of ill omen.” It echoed the truth in Owens own mind that nothing good came of weapons. He saw them as the refinement of mans greed and stupidity and was angered that he now had to now take them up to right a wrong done by his student.

“Owen?” John’s voice came in a muffled shout from the back room upstairs.

“I'm in the basement.” Owen heard his father’s tone in his voice. That flat emotionless statement of fact that only hinted at anger with its sharp clipped edges. John knew things were serious, but as he approached Owen, smelled the gun oil and saw the guns laid out he tried to deny the facts.

“Owen...”

“Just what the hell were you thinking?”

John just stood there, lost in his own shame and guilt.

“Keeping something like an attempt at a spell book and leaving it laying around. Do you know how old I am, kid?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn older than you're ever likely to be. I got old by being careful and smart. So far you've been neither. I took you on as a student because I felt bad for you, I didn't want you to get yourself killed or hurt someone else. Then guess f*****g what? You pull this s**t, and now we HAVE to kill someone.” Owen paused to calm down. “Have you ever forgotten a pattern?”

“No, sir.”

“Do ever have a hard time knowing which on does what?”

“No, s...”

“Then why the hell did you pick up your crayons and make a spell book!?!?” Owens voice boomed through the building and John’s head.

“It felt significant, I wanted to preserve it.” John felt tiny and weak, worse than when Barb had left him. “It's the first serious thing I've ever done with my life, I wanted to preserve it.”

“Kid...” Owen wanted to soften, he understood, the world was big and cruel, and magic made you feel like the tables could be turned. He handed John a pistol.

“We have to kill him?” John hefted the pistol and was terrified at how natural it was in his hand.

“Yes.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Look, kid I'm gonna cut through all the crap about this being your fault and get to the point. You can stand here now and be all moral and self-righteous about not killing and sleep well tonight knowing you won't have to. In the morning though you are gonna have to hear about how this idiot killed people all night long, people with families. You can either do something about it now or after people are dead.” Owen held out a clip for the pistol, John hesitated, but took it. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“No.”

“Damn, kid. Am I gonna have to teach you everything?”

Chapter 23

Owen gave John a crash course in firearms that more or less amounted to “don't point unless you intend to kill.” It seemed obvious to John, but he found himself uncomfortable with guns in general and was happy for any instructions. They put guns into holsters and overcoats on to hide their shotguns and it was time to go. Owen paused at the front door to pull a small backpack from behind the counter, John knew Owen planned ahead but was gaining a new respect for it. Evening was starting to gather as they walked out into the street, rush hour. The streets were quiet though, people were in hiding. John followed Owen across the street to a parking lot where Owen walked up to a large black SUV and got in, he unlocked the passenger door for John.

“I didn't know you owned a car.” Commented John as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“I don't.” Owen handed John the small backpack. “Get out the police scanner and let's find this guy before the cops do.”

The scanner was small and state of the art and made it easy to listen to the same nightmare that every Chicago cops was. There were 911 calls coming in from everywhere, there were suspicious characters in every alley, and every concerned or freighted citizen was dialing those three magic numbers like mad. In the midst of this chaos, someone was still running around killing people in a seemingly random manner with an unknown weapon that cooked people alive. The mayor was going on the news telling people to stay calm and alert but to shelter in place, sirens could be heard everywhere, and overhead news and police helicopters vied to be the first to get a glimpse of the villain of the hour. The city had gone mad and here he was, in a stolen SUV with Owen at the wheel, outfitted for a war and calmly driving through the chaos.

“How the hell do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Not let the craziness get to you.” John felt defeated.

“You mean not let the fact that I am out to kill a guy that my student screwed up piss me off?”

“No, I mean....”

“Look, kid. This ain't the time to be having a little heart to heart about things. I know it's rough to know things and see things that other people never can and it's only worse that you can do things they can't. It makes you feel powerful and alone at the same time, and that's a dangerous combination, people go crazy that way.” Owen paused and to listen the radio before throwing the SUV recklessly around a corner. “Ever heard of HP Lovecraft?”

“No.”

“He was a horror writer and one of his basic ideas was that true knowledge of how the universe worked was simply not something mankind could deal with. It would drive you insane to understand the true scope of things and our tiny place in it. There is a lot more to it than just that to his writing, but that’s what we got time for.”

“So you're saying deal with it or...”

“Or end up like the a*****e we have to kill.”

Silence fell between them with a sudden finality. The radio barked out addresses and sightings adding to the uncomfortable tension.

Chapter 24

Chicago is never truly dark at night. Shades and blinds only dull the orange glow from the streetlights and traffic. Inside the stolen SUV, it felt truly dark though. The only window not tinted was the windshield creating a strange feeling of removal from the outside world. As they hounded the same leads and calls that the police did, Owen and John stopped talking to each other. Owen because he was fed up and exhausted, John because he felt guilty and was plagued by Owen's disappointment in him. The only voices in the car were those of dispatchers and frustrated police as they tried to figure out where and how to catch the maniac on the loose. This went on till midnight when John couldn't take anymore.

“What happens when you shatter a pattern?”

“What the hell are you talking about? You can't shatter a pattern.”

“This guy can.” John thought about the damaged pattern he had seen in the man and the way he shattered others to fantastic effect.

“Patterns follow the same law of conservation of energy as everything else; it never goes away it just changes shape.”

“He can do it.”

“All right, kid. I gotta piss anyway.” Owen turned off the road and down an alley between warehouses. The large SUV seemed to fill the narrow space as Owen guided it to some dumpsters. “You see if you can do it, you got as long as it takes me to piss.” He killed the engine, the rumble and roar of it had been so loud and constant that the world seemed empty without it now, too quiet.

John heard and felt the driver’s side door slam as he was getting out on his side. It was an expression of anger that John did not misunderstand. He pulled a tin can from the nearest dumpster and examined it. The can was crumpled, and its pattern was still fairly simple. He walked a short ways down the alley then threw the can what he thought would be a safe distance.

As he started to explore the cans pattern, John realized that he had never just tried a random pattern to see what happened, to see what it would do. He had a brief and momentary thought that this might not be the safest thing to do. As you and I both know (some of us from experience), that thought usually occurs after or during a profoundly stupid act. Almost never before, what fun would that be? So John was getting lucky.

John warped and bent the pattern causing the can to change shape, color, and briefly glow white hot. He had no idea patterns were so durable and was getting anxious because he could hear Owens boots on the gravel as he walked back to the car. He looked closer at the pattern and saw that there was a central theme that kept repeating, a smaller pattern that built up to a larger pattern. This one was three or four threads curving and crossing, not unlike a complicated stretch of highway, it only took a moments effort to loosen one and the other threads fell apart causing the can to begin to unravel.

“Owen, I did....” And the can exploded releasing all the energy the pattern had held in place. The force of the explosion threw John back several feet, cracked the pavement in a circular pattern, and shattered a few nearby windows. As John sat up laughing, he could hear car alarms in the distance and Owen yelling at him. He hurt all over but was too elated to really feel it.

“What the f**k?!” Owen pulled John up off the pavement. “Are you OK, kid?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It worked!”

“No, s**t. How did you do it?”

“I just looked really close at the pattern, found the small pattern that repeats, and unhooked threads till it unraveled.” The look on Owens face was a mixture of panic and intense interest, John hadn't figured out the panic part yet.

Owen picked a small stone from the ground and threw it a short distance and focused on it for several heartbeats. It shifted color and shape at a blinding rate before Owen got it right, and the stone vanished in a flash of light and a respectable bang that echoed. John looked down the alley where the can had been and examined the patterns, they were a mess. There were black gaps, and random threads twisting and tangling in disorganized knots, the ugliness of it was unnatural, and it was big enough to take up most of the alley.

“Do you think that's dangerous?”

“I think it's about as safe as a hand grenade, but I'll be damned if I know what to do about it.” Owen walked over to some nearby trash cans and threw the lid of one like a Frisbee into the mass of chaos. It was deformed and mangled in mid air and altered course wildly several times as it traversed the damaged area. By the time it landed, it was partially liquid in places and in general looked nothing like the lid to a trash can. It was that moment that a set of headlights appeared at the other end of the alley, and it dawned on John why Owen had a panicked nervous look... Explosions in a large city tend to attract attention, especially when everyone was already on the lookout for a deranged killer. John felt stupid, and his self esteem plummeted when the siren suddenly gave a brief wail and the blue lights on the roof started their blinking.

“Put your hands up and back up, kid, do it real slow.” Owen led by example and John did as he was told.

“Turn around and get on the ground! Now!” The voice amplified over the speaker was female and terrifying to John. The police cruiser's engine roared, and it crept further down the alley like a predictable predator.

“Owen...” The cruiser was headed towards the mass of twisted patterns, and John shuddered to think what that would do to a person.

“I know, kid. Just hold tight, I got an idea about what’s about to happen. Just keep backing up.”

“Halt!” Shouted the voice over the loud speaker as the engine roared and the cruiser leaped forward bringing the front of the car into the broken patterns created by the explosion, and they seemingly were sucked into the car. The engine died in an instant. The hood ballooned and bulged popping off its hinges. Flames burst from under the car. One of the front tires shattered like it was made of glass, there was a loud double bang as both airbags deployed, and the whole car was spun sideways.

John stood shocked and horrified. Owen rushed to the car and quickly checked the driver and passenger. They were stunned from the air bags going off, but unharmed. Satisfied that no one was hurt he pushed John back to the stolen SUV, and they made their escape. Leaving two very confused officers to try and explain the impossible condition of their car to their superiors, who as you can imagine, did not have a sense of humor about their officers staging an elaborate hoax. After all what other explanation was there? With no video from the dashboard camera and a police car that looked like modern art run amuck small minds could produce no other explanation.

Chapter 25

“Holy s**t, kid.” It was all Owen had said for the past five minutes. “Holy s**t.” Over and over again in an amused whisper. John was feeling better about himself and proud that he impressed Owen, it almost made him forget the gun on his hip, and the reason they were out there in the first place.

“Yeah, holy s**t, but can we use it?”

“Oh, yeah. We can use it. But this is bad for whoever this guy is.”

“You mean worse than us looking to kill him.”

“Much worse, you saw what that chaos did to the patterns it overwhelmed; imagine what that would do to a person. It explains what you said about his pattern burning in places. This is no longer us doing what the cops can’t; this is now a mercy killing.” Owen paused to light a cigarette. “Poor b*****d must be half crazy and in incredible pain.”

“So how can we use it?”

“It means we can follow him. We just have to follow the damaged patterns.”

As with many things, this is easier said than done, the exception being trying to explain to someone else how to solve a rubric’s cube or maybe fix a problem with their internet browser over the phone. They doubled back and rolled through the North side of Chicago till at last they caught the faint and fading trail of chaos left behind by unraveling patterns. At first the trail wandered and meandered, from place to place, before heading north along a set of railroad tracks, heading away from downtown.

Chapter 26

The Morton Salt Factory on Elston was sandwiched between the expressway and railroad tracks on one side and the river on the other. It was one of those unintentional landmarks that everyone knew. People saw the roof from the expressway with its brightly painted logos marked for many the place where they had to start looking for their exits to work or home. Commuter trains rolled past all day and late into the night with a good number of passengers using the building as their cue that they were only a few minutes from downtown.

The building was a factory, simple and inelegant to look at, it was purpose driven. There were smaller office buildings attached to it, and there was a loading dock with a large parking lot. It was to John’s mind a place that looked strange without people working. With no trucks being loaded and no activity visible, it seemed a bleak and lonely place at night. It reminded John of a location in a cheap zombie movie, you knew something was gonna go wrong when you saw it. It was too much of a cliché for something not to.

The trail of disrupted and destroyed patterns ended behind one of the office buildings and vanished into a doorway that clearly lead to a basement. Owen killed the headlights and for a few moments sat still and stared into the empty darkness. He was trying not to let it get to him, trying to shake off that fear and anger that he always felt before a fight. Even as a child he had hated having to fight, feared it, but he had channeled that towards his opponents and it often made the difference. He wasn't young anymore, but his emotions felt painfully fresh and familiar again as if this was his first schoolyard fight.

“Well, there's no getting around this. He went in there, and we gotta go in there.” Despite his words Owen didn't move, he just took a long slow drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

“You know those things are going to kill you.” John's voice had a flat matter of fact tone, nothing hurried about it. He was hoping this was a bad movie scene and was unfortunately starting to sound the part.

“I should live so long.” The doorway loomed before them dark and ominous. “Don't use magic unless you have too. You never know where there are cameras, and it's a b***h to track down all the tapes.”

“I don't suppose this guy is gonna think the same way?”

“No. Wear this.” Owen produced a black ski mask from his pack.

“Really?” As a response Owen ratcheted the action on his shotgun and gave John a dirty look. John didn't notice because he had spotted the tribesman again. He was standing on top of a post that sported a no parking sign near a respectable office entrance to the building. He had an enormous plastic cup filled with bright red slush that John guessed was a case of cherry flavored brain freeze waiting to happen. The tribesman held a finger to his lips clearly suggesting silence. “Owen, do you see that?”

“See what?” Owen turned and looked in the general direction of the tribesman and apparently did not see him.

“Right there on the no parking sign, you don't see anything?”

“No.” Owen looked back at John in a concerned manner.

The tribesman smiled and waved, clearly mocking him.

“Forget about it.” John muttered as he got out of the SUV.

Chapter 27

It is a testament to the civilized order of things that few of us know what it is like to stalk through the dark, cradling a weapon and trying to kill before we are killed. It is unfortunate though that this civil order is paper thin and depends on everyone agreeing on it, nor should it be surprising when someone breaks the rules and people set about hunting each other; police hunting after gangs, criminals chasing after each other and everyone else. You will get no end of “why” in court and “why” from sociologist, professional and otherwise. The main thing is that we are all convinced we are the good guy in the movie and that the credits are about to roll for someone else, but never for us. The lie seems childish, till you think about the possibility that you are wrong that you are the bad guy and today your story will end and the credits roll, a truth that is difficult to face. So we lie to ourselves and turn away, even under the most dire of circumstances least we be paralyzed; the world will go on without us, it in truth, will not even skip a beat. It was this fear that crept into John as he followed Owen into the darkened factory with his shotgun clumsily held at the ready.

Every shadow seemed to hide menace and he feared the sound of his breathing was enough to give him away, but John moved on into the shadows. This part of the basement seemed to store older machinery, there were racks and shelves full of motors and parts of various kinds, all covered in a thin layer of dust. One thing there was not was a trail of shattered patterns and twisted webs of chaos, he thought this might be an unwelcome sign, wanted to tell Owen but was not so stupid as to break the silence. He consoled himself that Owen probably knew and already had a plan.

Owen, on the other hand, was trying to figure out what the hell to do, despite what John thought he had no plan or even a remote idea of how to search a vast factory. He wanted to resort to magic, but all the ways of finding a pattern that he knew would lead right back to him. Just because this guy was using twisted magic and seemed to be half crazy, didn't mean that he was stupid. The fact that he had figured out how to unravel patterns showed he might, in fact, be smart as hell, Owen was not about to take any chances, he had not gotten old by being careless.

They stalked through rooms of salt bags, pallets stacked in racks, machinery sitting silent; it was a stark and cold landscape of shadows and industry. Owen cursed the cleaning crew for being so efficient, except for that first store room there wasn't dust anywhere, and there wasn't a single track or scuff. What Owen didn't know was that the only reason the plant was shut down was for its yearly top to bottom cleaning, they had just finished, and things would go back to a busy round the clock schedule in the morning.

Time crept by as steadily as the two creping through the cavernous building. Owen was becoming worried about getting caught by the morning shift as much as he was by the killer, because with every step he was more certain that the killer was somewhere else. It would fit with everything neatly going wrong and straight to hell, the last thing he needed was to try to nail this guy in broad daylight with news helicopters, police, and everybody watching. His doubt was cut down in midstride though when he heard faint and distant snoring. He paused in the shadow of a large electrical control box that sat on the edge of a long conveyor belt that went through several rooms. He turned to John, who nodded, he had heard it too.

They moved slower, trying to be quieter than they already were, and each tried to banish their reservations about murder.

Chapter 28

Jimmy had no idea what was happening to him. He had felt like a god after looking at that screwed up book, he had hoped there were answers in it, but he had lost it. He had stopped to kill that a*s clown that owed him a couple hundred, which must have been when he dropped it. Oh, well, so much for that. It was starting to worry Jimmy though; he wasn't feeling right, not sick or anything. Just not right, like parts of him were vanishing and not coming back. He wasn't sure if he was losing his mind, selling his soul, or, on a terrifically awful acid trip while he was trapped in his closet.

All he knew for sure was that he was a killing machine and could finally do whatever he wanted, to whomever he wanted. So there were scores to settle and debts to “pay off” all over town. Even though he had only been in town a short time it was shocking the number of people whom he could think of that had done him wrong or at least deserved to burn for one reason or another. Except for that kid, he almost felt guilty about killing that kid. He had been choking this guy to death while slowly cooking his guts (that never got old), when out of nowhere this kid runs into the room with a f*****g shotgun! The damned gun was bigger than the kid, and it scared the s**t out of Jimmy. The kid started yelling at him to stop hurting his daddy and blasting away in every direction with the shotgun. Well, he wasn't about to stand there and get shot, who would? Still, he felt guilty having killed the kid.

That regret didn't stop him from keeping up his rampage though, nor did it actually dampen his joy at being a god suddenly. It was hard work though, all that killing and flying around, he had thought it would be endless boundless energy, but he did get tired. That got him to thinking; am I still mortal? He had gotten lucky and not been shot yet and dodging the cops was ridiculously easy now. He was the one controlling the fire, so there was no reason or way for it to burn him. But was he still mortal? Again, he wished he had not lost that damned notebook. You and I can sit here and comfortably make the comment that Jimmy never thought about finding out whose notebook it was. This says a great deal about Jimmy's general intelligence, and how much his thinking was being warped by his status as a “god”.

Mortal, immortal, or just downright crazy, a hard day killing will wear a guy out (especially if it starts out with lots of booze, drugs, and sex with unconscious girlfriends). He needed a place to hide and Jimmy knew he couldn't just get a hotel room. His common sense as a criminal was intact and had not vanished into madness yet, and on some primal level he knew he had to hide. But where? He had flown over the city and considered options from the mundane to the morbid. He had never forgotten a crazy f****r in jail that told him about the “Gacy Motel”, show up at the door and kill everyone so you can sleep in the bed. That was a bit much for Jimmy because he didn't like the idea of hurting kids. Even a******s have limits, even if you can count them on one hand.

So when he saw the Morton Salt Factory he smiled. He had been offered a job to help out as a temp on the annual cleaning, it had sounded to dirty for the pay to him, so he turned it down, but he knew the building was empty. There had to be all kinds of good places to hide in there, and no one was likely look there. It was the perfect place to catch a nap and plan for bigger and better.

Chapter 29

They could see him. At the far end of a wide aisle of pallets stacked high with packaged salt. He sat at a desk in the shipping department, his feet propped up on a box clearly marked “out”. He snored deeply and evenly with his head back, not the image of a man with a guilty conscience. As they crept closer John could see the man was disgusting, in every sense. He was covered head to toe in random splatters of blood and body fluids, his face was mangled as if it had been clawed by a wild animal, and there were sections of his scalp that were just bloody and raw. The man’s pattern was falling apart as John looked at it, not unraveling, but it was simply collapsing slowly in places while, in others, it seemed to be burning. Whoever this guy was he was a horrible sight in every sense of the word and John knew was dying.

Still they crept closer, ever so slowly. Owen had decided he wanted to get close enough for a single clean shot to the head. He too had seen the state the man was in and was sure he wouldn't be able to wake up in time. He was wrong of course because it was at that very moment that Jimmy opened his eyes. The three of them were there. Frozen in that brief instant of, “holy f**k”, where there was no doubt, no mistake about what had to happen next. The only question was who would walk away and who was about to die.

Everyone exploded into action.

Owen blindly fired hoping for a lucky shot, it wasn't, it missed but destroyed a significant portion of the desk. Jimmy had launched himself straight up into the air and stayed there. John rushed blindly forward trying to get a clean shot at the now flying Jimmy. It was the start of a cluster f**k. People see shoot outs and gun fights in the movies, and they think that there is some sort of sense and thought that goes on, in the case of seasoned and trained professional soldiers there is an element of strategy, they train for years though. Between the three of them, there was no actual training just a lifetime of movie shoot outs and a lot of violent video games.

Jimmy clumsily threw a stream of fire at Owen, who dodged to one side, the flames quickly spread over the racks and pallets. John who realized he was doing something stupid fired blindly, it actually startled and upset Jimmy slightly causing him to move away from Owen, and that was part of the reason he missed. Jimmy switched his attention to John and decided that he genuinely hated him and was done playing so he set about making the air around him burn, he hadn't tried that yet. Owen was busy trying to see where Jimmy had gone without getting burned by the growing inferno next to him. John meanwhile had a moment of clarity that he would never forget.

He could feel the air around him getting hotter and hotter, well past anything he had ever felt before. This was no oven blast, this was “I now understand the terror of burning alive” and John would have nightmares about this moment for the rest of his life. He fought to bring his shotgun to bear, but it seemed to be moving too slowly, everything did. He saw the patterns and flames wrapping around the man who was about to be his killer, some distant part of his mind saw the beauty in it, there was no thought though. There couldn't be, it was pure action and reaction. Like it or not all the players had made their choices ahead of time and set things in motion. Now it was down to a simple question; was John going to shoot before he started trying to breathe flames?

John pulled the trigger and watched his potential killer crumple and fall violently to the ground, crushing what was left of the shipping desk in the process. The air around him cooled quickly, and he could smell burning hair and see that his clothing was burnt in places. He stood there a moment in shock and terror at what he had done. He felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring. Turning he came face to face with the tribesman, who looked sad but smiled reassuringly before vanishing. These few heartbeats would forever leave a stain on John.

“Did you get him?” Owen yelled past the growing flames.

“Yeah... I got him.”

Chapter 30

They could hear sirens as they drove and at one, point it seemed like every fire truck in the city was racing past them, lights blazing and loaded with adrenaline pumped heroes in waiting. Owen had shut off the police scanner and the radio, so there was no way to know how much worse the fire had gotten. It was already bad when they started running for the door then by the time they pulled away there was a plume of smoke and fire competing with the city’s skyline. Neither of them spoke, Owen drove while he smoked and John sat in the passenger seat staring out the window.

They ditched the car in an alley by an L stop and rode the Brown Line the rest of the way to the stop on Western Avenue. As they got off, a Chicago police officer gave them a dirty look from where he leaned against the wall sipping coffee. Owen seemed not to care despite carrying a bag full of evidence and smelling like a burning factory so John followed his led and they never got a second look. Officer Caver knew something was up with those two. Everything in his experience and training told him to stop them and see where it went. Everything except the gentle tick of the clock he heard. He was going to retire soon, leave his wife and move to Mexico with his mistress. The thought of her brought him to a standstill. Why risk a future with a pretty young thing like that? He watched them go and told his instincts to shut up for once while he dreamed of warm beaches.

John followed Owen down the stairs, out to the street, down the alley and through the back door of the shop. It was over in John’s mind, and as they headed down to the basement he felt nothing but miserable and tired. He was trying not to think, trying not to face the fact that he had just killed a man then left his body to burn in an inferno that would no doubt destroy millions of dollars’ worth of property. Even without that thought the collateral damage from the evening mounted quickly, how many dead before he acted? How many dead because he was foolish? It was hard to get his head around it, hard to face, easier to follow Owen to a blank wall in the corner of the basement. Owen made no attempt to hide his trick or safe from John, the kid was stupid, but he would never be a thief. John, however, was not paying attention because he was struggling with his guilt.

“Did you fill out your time card for the week?” The banality of the question shocked John for a moment. “I said; did you fill out your f*****g time card!?”

“Yes, sir.” John could only mutter.

“Good.” Owen opened a bottom drawer in his safe and pulled out three large rubber banded stacks of cash and thrust them at John. “Get lost and never come back.”

“What...”

“Kid, you aren’t lousy at magic, but you are careless and dumb as hell sometimes. Playing Harry-f*****g-Potter with your damn color by numbers spell book killed how many people? Burned down a factory endangering how many firefighters? Cost how many people their jobs?” Owen paused to contain himself before lowering his tone. “In the not so old days you would have been shot for this, as it is I am going to have hell to pay, but consider yourself lucky to be alive.”

“I...”

“Just shut up, kid.” Owen dropped his guns on the work bench. “This episode of stupidity has more than proven you shouldn't handle this power. So there is the last of your pay with a generous bonus, use it, go away, find something else to do with your life. Lock the door on the way out and never come back.”

“Owen...”

“Get the hell out, now.” Owen didn't raise his voice, but the gravel in it said it all. John packed the bills into his pockets, dropped the guns on the work bench and did as he was told, locking the door on the way out.

Chapter 31

He was exhausted, but he knew he couldn't take any more chances, so he took a cab back to what was left of his apartment building. The whole way the car radio spilled the news about the fire engulfing the Morton Salt factory, arson was at the tip of every one's tongues. As the early morning, DJ said; “things only burn that way if someone wants them to burn!” The upside was that there had been no firefighters reported hurt as of yet and the public was pinning the blame on the villain of the hour, they still had no idea he was dead in at the bottom of the burning building.

There were no guards apparent at John’s building, but he was careful to stay out of sight and go in a back door just in case. The hallways already smelled faintly of mold from all the water that had come leaking down through all the cracks and holes, at least that wasn't his fault. He slipped up the stairs and under the yellow tape declaring this a “crime scene”, he could hear faint talking in one of the apartments but doubted it was a resident. He wasted no time opening the air vent and retrieving some extremely soaked cash, the ring, and the damned Book. He carefully replaced cover and was back on the street quick as a shadow.

He hailed another cab and asked for hotel.

“What kind?”

“Cheap, but not nasty.”

“Tough to do on this side of town.”

“Do what ya can then.”

So in no time he had a room, and despite the fact that he was exhausted in every sense of the word he couldn't relax. He sat on the crappy bed looking out over the parking lot at the liquor store on the other side of the street and fought the urge to drink for a long time, he didn't actually know why and when he stopped to think about it he gave up. He shuffled across the parking lot as the sun was coming up; he missed the darkness and wanted to hide away. He grabbed some random beer and some junk food on impulse.

“Rough morning?” Asked the guy behind the counter that looked to be the exact definition of rough mornings.

“Yeah.” He was not interested in talking.

The man gave him his change and a knowing half smile and nod but said nothing more. As John walked out he noticed a shorter woman standing by the doorway, she was lighting a cigarette. Her make-up was layered on, and her skimpy clothing looked more than slightly dirty. She was blond, and John briefly wondered why they were all blonde.

“Wanna party, cutie?” Her voice had a noticeable lack of seduction to it. Still he did a second take, he had never been propositioned. She was attractive, no doubt about that, John stared longer than he should have at her thin t-shirt, she smiled falsely sensing a customer.

“Umm... No.” John felt decidedly shy suddenly. He looked at her pattern, and there certainly wasn't anything wrong with it. Nothing that said disease or heavy drug use, after the chaos of the night before it looked beautiful and shining. He was momentarily tempted by the thought of human warmth.

“Are you sure? You're kinda cute, I'll cut you a cheapie” He was still looking at her, and she knew how the minds of men worked, so long as he looked he wanted her. Something struck John about her suddenly, and he looked at her closer... He was older than her, by a lot; he realized she might not be even old enough to drive.

“How...” He stopped, shook his head, knowing he actually didn't want to know. He pulled a can of beer out of the bag and handed it to her, their fingers briefly touching, warmth on the cold metal.

“Thanks...?”

“Yeah.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled twenties and pushed them into her hand. “Buy a bus ticket and never look back.” It seemed like the sort of thing he should say, he wasn't sure, he was in unknown territory. Before she could say anything and before he could say anything else stupid, he walked towards his hotel room with his head down. What the hell was he doing?

Chapter 32

After three days of ordering pizza, drinking, and watching pay-per-view, John counted his money. He still had just over four thousand dollars, more money than he had ever had at any one time. Yet, he had nothing else. No job, no place to live, not even a spare change of clothing. A state of affairs that seemed to accelerate the hangover he knew he had more than earned, he decided not to care and turned on the TV. In the interest of saving money, he channel surfed through the basic cable channels, till suddenly something caught his eye. It looked for the world, like a two dimensional view of a simple pattern, he turned up the volume and watched transfixed.

It was a documentary about physics and math that explained the possibilities of parallel worlds, much of it went way over John’s head, but he got some of it. According to the documentary there were seemingly simple math formulas that when mapped or graphed with a computer created vast complicated images. These images contained smaller details that reflected exact images of the larger image and this continued no matter how small or large you went in the images. The narrator called it a “Mandelbrot set” and that it created these “fractal” images, it blew John's mind.

He suddenly grasped that there must be a way to express patterns no matter how complex they were in a mathematical way. It would make it easier and safer to study and explore the effects and possibility of any given pattern and any changes made to it. He realized that this math was well beyond him and that he was going to need help to continue learning magic as well, but those were solvable problems. He had no idea if this could or would work, but it was something.

He dumped out the booze, showered and shaved, and choked down some cold pizza as he locked the door behind him. He went and bought some new clothing, nothing fancy, just enough for two or three days. Picked up a newspaper, some aspirin for his hangover and started apartment hunting over lunch at a fast food joint. By evening, he was standing in his new apartment on Magnolia near Wilson.

He was still on the north side and still not in the best of neighborhoods, but it had what he needed, and a few things he might need. It was right next to the Brown line stop on Wilson, perhaps the scariest L stop ever. He had a grocery store nearby along with an army surplus, a family owned hardware store, and lots of small restaurants. The key selling point though had been its proximity to the local community college; Truman College. He had looked at a course catalog and knew they weren't going to have a class in magician’s algebra 101, but he tried to get a sense of what he could use, and it looked good. He just had a few loose ends to tie up, and then, he had to patch things up with Owen and that was what had him nervous.

Chapter 33

John had made a point to avoid paying attention to the news since the fire, had he made the effort it would have saved him a lot of trouble. While he was not a suspect, he was listed as missing and a person of interest in the investigation. It was after all his apartment that exploded, and no one had seen him or heard from him since then. While John considered sitting in a hotel room getting drunk for three days and paying for everything in cash a break to clear his head, it is seen by most law enforcement officials as hiding out or avoiding arrest. So when he decided it would be easier to go to his old place pick up his mail, and settle up with the landlord, he was not expecting to end up in a small interrogation room, in a downtown police station, but that is exactly what happened and what he should have expected. Some days it just never pays to try and do things the right way.

He had been frisked, searched, his pockets emptied, and he was given rough verbal treatment, by two cops that looked oddly like two guys who bullied him when he was a freshman in high school. He had not been read his rights, so he knew he wasn't under arrest, but he didn't want to push his luck and try to leave yet. Then he was left in an interrogation room looked like it was straight out of the movies, it was that stereotypical. John just kept telling himself to play it cool, they didn't know he was a killer, did they? Or did they?

The door opened, and a tallish woman with her blonde hair pulled back harshly in a serpent of a pony tail walked in. She had blue eyes, and there were just enough lines on her face to say she was no longer young, but not yet old, she was sharply dressed in a simple business wear (slacks not a skirt) clipped to her jacket was an ID badge that said in large bold blue letters “F.B.I.”. John knew he was in extremely deep s**t and watched her sit at the table as if she were offended that he was across from her.

“Hello, John. I am special agent Harris with the FBI and I'd like to talk to you about a few things.” Once again he wondered why it always had to be blonds and if there was any way in hell out of this.

“Ummm... Sure.”

“Good. Do you mind if I tape this?” She smiled and placed a small digital recorder on the table. “Taking notes gets in the way.” John pointedly looked at the large video camera mounted on in the corner of the ceiling before looking at the small recorder.

“I thought they already had audio in here.” As he spoke, he looked at the patterns of the device and quickly saw it was anything but a recorder. There were several patterns locked into it that he didn't understand, and threads that leaped out to something under her coat and another that wandered outside the room.

“We do, but I find it easier to have my own copy.” Her smile never faltered, she was a predator at ease with its prey.

“I do mind.”

“That's too bad.” She made no move to recover the now mysterious device.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How you answer.” She paused, giving him a chance to say something, he said nothing. “So shall we begin?”

“Yeah.” John saw unusually clearly that his rights could vanish in an instant and was terrified.

“How long have you lived at the apartment building on the corner of Kenmore and Bryn Mawr?”

“Three or four years I think.”

“According to the building manager you used to live there with a Barb Gibbons.”

“Yes.”

“What was the nature of your relationship to her?”

“We were dating and talking about getting married.”

“She moved out?”

“Yeah, she moved out after she broke up with me.”

“How long ago?”

“About eight or ten months ago.”

“Why did you blow up your apartment?”

“I didn't.” John was getting more uncomfortable and was sure that 'Agent Harris' was enjoying that.

“You recently flew to Minnesota...”

“My father died.”

“I know.”

“Were you making methamphetamine or any other drugs in your apartment?”

“No.”

“Was it your father that taught you magic?”

“F*****g what?!”

“Magic, was your father the one that taught it to you?”

“You mean like card tricks and rabbits out of hats?” John was terrified, and about ready to s**t himself right then and there. It made sense to him though, why wouldn't the government know about magic? Something like that couldn't go unknown or unnoticed forever, in the 'wrong' hands it could change the course of history. He wondered how much they knew, and thought again about the device on the table, just how much trouble had he gotten himself in?

“No, I do not mean card tricks or cute bunnies.” Her blue eyes seemed to turn a colder shade as her voice and expression took on a menacing tone.

“There's another kind?” Playing dumb had never worked out for John, but he didn't have much of a choice at the moment. Agent Harris shifted in her chair, examined her nails, John imagined her picking dead flesh out from under them, hopefully it wouldn't be his.

“We know how your apartment was blown up.” Her tone was matter of fact.

“I don't.”

“We can protect you; we have people that know about these things.”

“About exploding apartments?”

“Where were you when your apartment blew up?”

“At work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Owen's Pawn shop on Western.”

“Where?”

“On the north side, near Western and Lawrence.”

“Ahhh.” She paused, John wondered if she had known that. “Well, if you don't know what's going on and are as stupid as you pretend to be, I don't have to worry because you'll be dead as soon as we let you go.” John did not like the smile on her face, or anything else about her.

“So, I'm not under arrest for illegal card tricks?” John immediately regretted saying it because she gave him a look that spoke volumes about the unpleasant things she could do to him.

“No. We already talked to Owen, and we know you were there because you were at work well into the night with inventory.” Had they really talked to Owen? Or was she playing him?

“All, right. Can I go?”

Agent Harris sat and stared at him for a few moments. As if debating what to do with him, he doubted that though, she seemed like someone that always had a plan. After a few seconds, she stood up and walked out the door without a word, leaving the mysterious device on the table. She was gone several minutes, and John hated himself for having a brief damning desire to tamper with the device, he at the very least wanted to destroy it or know what it was. He was saved from poor impulse control by the return of agent Harris and the officer that had taken him to the police station.

“You can go now. Officer Hernandez will escort you out. And John...”

“Yeah.”

“If you live long enough to see me again, don't play stupid again, it pisses me off.”

Chapter 34

John switched cabs twice on the way to Owen's shop, he had seen in it a spy movie once and figured he had nothing to lose. He was scared and confused by the day’s events so far, and it was only early afternoon, not a strong start. One thing that kept bothering John though was implications of what agent Harris had said; “We can protect you, we have people that know about these things.” Protect me from who? How much did they know and how much had Owen not told him? The other implication was that they had their own mages, or a way to counter them, was that possible? He sat in the back of the second cab and started to feel more and more paranoid the closer he got to Owens. He had the driver pull over a block early, and skipped into a fast food joint, bought a burger and then slipped out the back.

The alley was quiet compared to the mid afternoon rush of the main streets, and it seemed like a lonely refuge as he walked the rest of the way to the shop slowly eating his burger. He got to the back door of the shop and realized he was going to have to go around the front because he didn't have keys anymore. What the hell was he going to say to Owen? He hadn't even thought it through and didn't have any brilliant ideas by the time he walked in the front door.

“You're late, kid.” Owen didn't even look up from his book at his usual spot by the register. He had an ever present cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and John realized he had not missed the smell of the nasty things.

“Late? You told me never come back again.” Was there anyone in the city of Chicago that he could talk to that wouldn't try screwing with him in the first five minutes?

“I know what I told you.” Owen had a smile on his face when he looked up.

“I don't understand....”

“You should be used to that by now.” Owen was outright laughing. John was confused and frustrated but happy to see him again, even if he was being an a*s. Before John could come up with a response though, the door opened behind him, he watched Owens smile vanish and heard a woman's voice say;

“Get the hell out of my way.”

John turned and was face to face with the most model perfect woman he had ever seen. She had stark bleached white hair, perfect youthful skin, dark brown eyes, and a beautiful body that was barely hidden by her stunning and apparently expensive clothing. It was all topped off by a purple silk scarf. Yes, my dear reader, this is the charming young lady that we know from the prologue.

“I said get out of my way.” John was stunned by her beauty and simply stepped aside in awe, his brain not even registering how rude she was. She walked passed him towards Owen as if it were her store and he the lowest employee. “Owen, you're ugly as ever!” Her tone was charming and singing.

“Veronica, I told you never come into my territory again.” Owens words were venomous.

“I'm here representing the Conclave.”

“Really? Good for you. Get out.”

“Who's the idiot that caused all the trouble? Started all those fires?”

“He's dead, would you like to talk him?”

“You were sloppy, Owen. That makes everyone nervous, you know that.”

“Get out, unless you have something besides nonsense and threats.” His voice was a growl.

“I do have something to say...”

“Look, little girl.” Owen cut her off. “If the Conclave had gotten together and decided that I was a threat or a problem without an investigation...”

“We don't...” She was turning red.

“... Then they wouldn't be sending you, now would they, princess?” Owen tapped his lighter on his full ashtray. “I'd be dead a long time ago. You're here because you want to make a scene and have an excuse to remind me to keep looking over my shoulder. You've done it, now get out of my shop and my territory.”

“You're right, Owen.” She said his name with true loathing. “You should keep looking over your shoulder.” She turned to leave and came face to face with John again, who was no longer amused by her beauty but couldn't hide the smile on his face from watching someone else get ripped by Owen. “What are you laughing at, a*****e?”

“You, ya' dumb b***h.”

John didn't have time to enjoy saying it. He just found himself on the floor under the sharp heel of a shoe that cost more than he spent on rent in a year. Her kick had been that fast, later when Owen watched it on the tape from the security camera it only showed up as a blur in one frame.

“Respect your betters.” When she pressed down, with her toe on his neck, John couldn't help but look up and smile, despite the pain he was in. He saw clearly that Veronica did not like to wear underwear and that she kept her womanhood pristine and tidy.

“If you’re gonna kill me at least wear some panties.” Veronica pulled her foot back to kick John again, but Owens voice boomed through the store.

“Enough! Just get out.”

She stood over John and looked him in the eye with contempt. “I've decided that I don't like you, and I'll enjoy killing you.” With that, she stormed out of the store with regal fury.

As John slowly picked himself up off the floor, Owen started to chuckle, and it slowly grew to a full blown roar. When he calmed himself down he looked at John with a serious look on his face. “Kid, you are gonna get yourself killed.”

“I'm slowly learning that.”

Chapter 35

“You told me never come back again.” John opened a beer.

“Yeah, and I meant it at the time.” Owen sipped from his own beer before continuing. “I'm still mad at ya for screwing up so bad. I can’t let ya get yourself killed. When I saw the news I knew that there was going to be hell to pay. You’re a dumb a*s but you don’t deserve to die.”

“Gee, thanks. You left a few things out.”

“I know, I should have told you about politics sooner....”

“And the FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Yeah, I made the mistake of going back to my old place to talk to the landlord. Before I knew what was happening, I was in a small room with an FBI agent asking me pointed questions, and already knowing most of the answers. She knew about magic too.”

“Really?” Owen looked concerned.

“Yeah.”

“Well, there’s been a rumor for a long time that more than a few mages have given information to the government in one form or another over the years. I had no idea they were actively searching for mages.” Owen got up and opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a bag of pretzels. “What did he ask you?”

“She, wanted to know who my teacher was, if it was my father or what. She told me she could protect me, that I'd be dead if she didn't. After that other b***h, I think she might be right.”

“That was Veronica.” Owen sat down and wondered where his lighter was. “She is convinced that because she knows magic that it makes her better than normal people. She gets what she wants and kills people who have what she wants or get in her way. She laid claim to the North Eastern territories around New York after her father died. She keeps trying to steal or gain new territories, it's not like it does her any good. Really, she's just a narcissistic brat who likes to make trouble, but she has power, and that makes her dangerous.”

“Yeah.” John’s jaw still hurt.

“So what else did this FBI agent say?”

“No much but she put this thing on the table that was creepy. It looked like a digital recorder, but the pattern had all kinds of stuff attached to it with threads that led out of the room and one that went under her coat.” John shoved some pretzels in his mouth.

“No, idea what that was, but I'm gonna be honest with you...” Owen paused to sip his beer. “This is your fault, kid. If you hadn't been screwing around, or had been more careful, this would never have happened. You brought a lot of attention and trouble to our doorstep.”

“I'm really sorry, I just didn't think.”

“Well, you better start thinking because if they called a Conclave we came close to getting into a whole world of trouble.”

“What the hell is a Conclave, anyways?”

“It sounds nice and formal, but it's just a damn mess. If something happens, like rouge students or a disagreement about territories, they call a Conclave bringing in nearby mages. Everyone involved presents their case, and those not involved either vote or come up with a solution. A lot of times the solution is to kill someone or let them be killed in a duel. It's just window dressing for the fact that we can't even govern ourselves.”

“How come they didn't just vote to kill us then?”

“A lot of people like me. I've done favors for most of them at one time or another. I've also made sure to keep a low profile and not be a threat to anyone. Unfortunately, that's part of the reason Veronica thinks she can push me around.” Owen drained his beer. “But, I'm older and smarter than she is, so it's never been a problem.” John got up and got two more beers out of the fridge and added them to the growing crowd on the table.

“So speaking of problems and my screw up I have an idea that I should run past you.”

“After all this you have another bright idea?”

“Have you ever heard of fractals? I saw a documentary about them and it got me thinking. Is there a way to express patterns with math? If we can do that, we could learn all kinds of things...”

“Yeah, I know what fractals are, and I've had the same thought, but I'm not exceptionally good at math, so I never got far with it. What are you thinking?”

“I don't know anything about math, certainly not enough to handle this. So, I'm gonna go back to school and see what I can learn. I just wanted to talk to you because I'm gonna need your help, I'm gonna need a teacher again.”

“As far as I'm concerned kid we start again in the morning. If for no other reason, than I can't throw you to the wolves now. Even if I should for your dumb a*s mistakes.”

“Thanks, Owen.” John realized he was not going to get another chance.

“That's 'sir' to you and don't you ever forget it.” Owen knew this wasn't the end of it, but neither of them was gonna get far alone.

Chapter 36

It had been a long time since John had been in school, after graduating high school he had worked, and worked hard to provide for him and Barb. There had been no time for him to go to college, it wasn't that he was stupid, he had lacked direction. Now he had a reason and felt the pressure of it even on the first day of school, if for no other reason than he had no idea how to be a good student, but for the first time in his life wanted to be.

As John fidgeted in his seat and doodled on the first page of his notebook he was noticing something about going back to school, he was the old man in the class. Everyone there looked for the most part like they had just gotten out of high school and weren't even old enough to drink. At 24, he was not old by any standard, but he suddenly felt it watching his fellow students file in. He suddenly was self-conscious of himself and didn't know what to do about it.

One thing to be said about Truman College that John did like was the fact that everyone seemed to go there. It was the most diverse school he had ever attended and it made him happy and he was unclear as to why. It just made him content to see faces different from his own and hear different languages spoken, each spiced with laughter that was universally human. There was another thing that John liked about college, and it was as universal and self-explanatory as laughter; it was all the women. Even while he had been just running to the office to get and drop off paper work for his application he couldn't help but notice them everywhere and he felt as if he had somehow forgotten about women until then. He had buried himself in learning magic and working for Owen, neither of which was very social activities, the call center had at least had other people to interact with but he remembered where that had gotten him. So he vowed not to have the same thing happen here, he would not be “that creep”.

The classroom was mostly full now, everyone chatting, they seemed to know each other either from the neighborhood, high school, or other classes. It didn't bother John; he'd find a way to blend in eventually. The instructor walked in, everyone slowly quieted down, and copies of the syllabus were handed out. As the instructor started going over the details, a young woman dashed in muttering apologies taking the first seat that was open by the door. The instructor made a point of mentioning his policy on not letting people who were late into class after ten minutes, John felt sorry for her.

The second class John was taking, Owen had convinced him to start slow but not easy, was English. John had thought it couldn't be that bad, but as the syllabus was handed out he saw nothing but reading assignments and a steady flow of papers to turn in. Owen had convinced him that if he was going to get an education that he should cover all the bases and do it right. “Be a well-rounded person, a Renaissance man.” As John was lamenting listening to Owen the same young woman who had been late to his math class darted in late to this class, again muttering apologies the instructor (an older woman who said she had been teaching for forty years) said nothing but gave her a dirty look. John noticed her more completely this time and was happy she was in both his classes. Her hair was not dark, it was black, a thick lustrous black so deep that it seemed unnatural, it was braided into a long thick pony tail that hung well past her shoulder blades. She had brilliant dark eyes that flashed from under her dark lashes; her features were gentle and elegant. He was drawn to her dark brown skin though, it was flawless and held a luminous quality that he had first thought was his imagination, the lighting, or make up, but as he stared he saw that it was just her natural appearance. She was dressed simply, slacks and a red shirt that was most likely a uniform for a local “big box” discount store nearby. She caught him looking at her and smiled shyly, normally this sort of moment would have been awkward for John, but it wasn't and he even remembered to smile back at her before they both turned their attention back to class. After class John tried to find her, but she had vanished out the door well before John could gather his senses or his books.

Chapter 37

The shop was closed Sunday, no exceptions. So it was strange to John when Owen told him to be at the shop at noon on Sunday. It was even stranger when Owen was waiting out front for him, the door still locked and the steel gate drawn. Owen would only explain he had a surprise, and they hailed a cab to what looked like an abandon and run down warehouse on the south side.

“This place belongs to a friend of mine.” Owen opened a side door that was almost rusted shut. “He used to run a small import export business when we were younger, the company went under, but he hung on to this place, and I look in on it now and again for him. I think he keeps it in case he needs a place to hide, but who knows.”

“A mage?”

“Yeah, he lives in Quebec.”

“Is this one of the guys that owes you a favor?”

“No, I owe him, but we are on good terms.”

There was no offices, no subsections; it was just one enormous warehouse almost large enough to play football in. At one, end there were large windowless doors where the loading dock was, overhead there were skylights that let in some dim light through dirty panes. Dust and debris covered the floor, but there was no smell of mildew and no sign that people had broken in. It was as if the doors had been locked, and the place was truly forgotten. Owen locked the door behind them and walked to the far end and made sure the dock doors were locked tight still, John followed him out of curiosity about this place.

“When things were still good we had some great parties here after work.” Owen looked around at the dust and emptiness with sadness. “We would clear the loading docks on a Friday night, set up a bar by the doors and put a grill out in the parking lot. If it was a good week, it was ribs and steak if it was terrible we had burgers and dogs. There were twenty of us and everyone kicked in what they could. One group of guys usually had their guitars with them so they would sit around and drink and play. Conrad would always take a couple of the stock boys and go buy some beer, somehow he always managed to return with more people than he left with. It was one of those rare things, kid, no one felt like it had to happen or made it happen it just did. We would drink, eat, and dance... Hell, it was nothing for us to be here till midnight.” The smile that had been growing on Owens face faded as he touched those memories. “Nothing lasts forever though.”

“What happened?”

“Things changed. Regulations got tougher on the business and politics among mages turned bad. People moved on, and that was that. Now I just look in on the place from time to time for Conrad.”

John had never heard Owen talk about the past, it was one of those things he was curious about but was never able to bring up. He knew so little about Owen beyond what he saw day to day, and it had been easy to imagine a mysterious past. Hearing him talk, about the parties and lost friends made John see Owen in a normal light, not as a mage but as an everyday person. It did not diminish John’s respect for him but made him feel closer as if he had learned some small secret no else knew.

“Enough of that crap, time to work!” Owen clapped his hands together loudly.

“Just tell me we're not cleaning this mess up...” It seemed a huge undertaking and John was exhausted from the first week of classes and work.

“Not today.” Owen chuckled. “What do you notice about the walls?”

The walls looked aged but well built as if they could withstand much more than just time. When he looked at the patterns, he saw why. The walls had been altered so that the bricks were very dense and fused together, the mortar was decoration to hide the fact that the building was essentially one continuous piece of stonework. There were also some other patterns embedded in the walls that looked like they would affect vibrations and temperature.

“Magical air conditioning?”

“That's part of it; the other pattern is to muffle the noises inside the building.”

“Cool.” It was not something John had thought of but it gave him ideas about how to deal with his new neighbors who were keeping him up.

“It comes in handy for days like today.”

“What are we doing?”

“Practicing.” Owen opened a new pack of cigarettes as he talked. “I've got you started on the small stuff and theory. So as much as you think you know, it's nothing other than enough to keep you from killing yourself. Today, we are going to start pulling it all together and start using some real magic.” For the first time ever John watched Owen lit his cigarette without a lighter, smoke leaping from the end as if by its own accord. “Never use magic for piddly s**t, you'll get in the habit of doing it and do something stupid eventually. Respect the power that it is and don't waste it, as the last mages we are allowed to see things other people can't and won't. It is a privilege that we cannot abuse.” Owen started walking towards the center of the warehouse. “Yet, if we don't become proficient at it we do it a disservice. Magic is by its very nature an elegant thing and to be clumsy and rough with it is a waste. Do you know what Tai Chi is?”

“Yeah, it's a martial art.”

“Right, but what makes it different is that it focuses on the flow of energy through your body as you practice. It takes a flow of energy and moves it from being clumsy to efficient because it works with the flow of energy and rather than fighting it, directs it. Magic is the same way. Fire will burn just fine if you provide the initial spark.” To demonstrate Owen picked up an old paper bag off the floor and touched his cigarette to it till it slowly began to burn. “But knowing how fire works gives you an advantage. You can raise the temperature by altering the pattern, you can make the paper drier to burn faster, force air into the fire to speed up the process, even prevent heat from escaping. Alone each pattern works fine, but all together working with the natural flow of the fire is devastating.” To drive the point home, Owen tweaked the needed patterns and the paper bag all but exploded as he dropped it.

“Sometimes the very small affects the very large. There is a line in the Kabala that says; as above, so below and as below, so above. Let's try another one, pick me up by my arm.” Owen held his arm outstretched in front of him. John tried first without magic and got nowhere.

“What are you thinking?”

“Alter your mass?”

“You forgot something.”

“I can't alter a living pattern, so how about your clothing?”

“Clever but you'd have to do a lot to get me anywhere. Try gravity.”

“I didn't know we could do that.”

“It's a bad idea to go messing with it directly, but you can create shadows where gravity is weaker, or focus it so that it is crushing. Be careful though because gravity affects a lot of other things.” Owen showed him how to see the pattern and haw to alter it till he could lift him.

As the afternoon progressed, things got bigger and more complicated. Throwing lightning from a static charge, and leaping across the room without effort. Fire tricks by the dozens and ways to stay alive in bad situations like fires. There were raging tornadoes that sent dust spiraling around the warehouse as it followed John’s every whim. The scariest for John was forcing air out of water to inflate a balloon, he was terrified that Owen would make him try breathing underwater for real. He didn't, but the idea stressed John out till he couldn't focus well enough to get it to work right.

The thing that became apparent through the afternoon and early evening as they practiced was the profound gap in what was known about magic. Owen warned not to push patterns in certain ways or to attempt things that worked in “theory” because they produced dangerous or deadly results. He demonstrated this by trying to teleport a can of soda across the warehouse; it exploded half way to its destination and filled the air with the smell of burnt metal. It was all lost knowledge that had either been forgotten or never passed on to students. According to Owen, there had to be a way to do it but no one knew how anymore... Or at least they weren't sharing.

“Part of it has to do with our so-called system of self-government.” Owen explained during their dinner break, sandwiches warmed by magic. “Since there is no real way to make a mage comply with or follow laws a lot of conflicts are solved by just killing those who are deemed dangerous by order of a conclave. If it's a conflict between two mages, that can't be solved by a conclave, then one of them issues a challenge to a duel. The result is that teachers get killed before they can pass on their knowledge or students are left with incomplete educations and go off on their own to teach what little they know.”

“It almost sounds post-apocalyptic. Survivors trying to keep bits of technology and science alive, losing parts as time goes by.” John found it frustrating because he had at first thought magic to be all powerful. But here it was all but dead, and limited by the destruction wrought by the faults of the people it had empowered. “What about peace?”

“There was an effort at it after World War 2. The war was brutal on everyone and mages had suffered horrible losses everywhere, so many died trying to defend their territories from invaders, others died in hiding or helping various resistance groups, and still more died trying to take advantage of the situation. There was an effort to set up an alliance that would settle disputes and codify laws to keep things civilized and peaceful.”

“What happened?”

“Someone started killing off people who came out in support of the idea. It wasn't long before people started blaming each other and what good will there was vanished back into eternal feuding.”

“And more got lost...”

“More gets lost every year.” Corrected Owen.

Chapter 38

John somehow still thought of school as, well, school. It didn't seem so much like college, more a glorified high school in many ways. The age range was better than he had first thought, he was not one of the oldest students, far from it. There were people there in their 50's and 60's, but most of the older students were there for evening classes and seldom turned up during the day. It made John feel better though.

What really lifted his spirits and shocked him was his sudden realization that he was good at math. It had never been his worst subject, but he found that now he had a purpose and need for it things were different. That is not to say that he didn't have to work at it or spend time on the homework but that he learned it, and it stuck with him. It was basic stuff, and he hadn't made any connections with how mathematics would help with magic and patterns, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it would.

There was something else that lifted his spirits about school, the women. They were young, pretty and everywhere. He couldn't do his homework in the cafeteria because it was too distracting to have so many walking by and being well... Attractive. The one that was more distracting than the others and that was the young Indian woman who was always late to at least one of the two classes they had together. He had learned during attendance that her name was Radha, and it was difficult for him to not repeat the name over and over, it had a mysterious quality to it that he couldn't escape. It was also difficult for him to shake the feeling that he was being the creepy stalker that Sandra and others had been so comfortable making him out to be. John's self-esteem had much improved since then, but it had not yet faced the trial by fire that is a woman’s approval and affection.

Then there was the mysterious tribesman that would often stand in the corner of the class or follow John around. He would show up out of nowhere, literally, but John never saw him appear or vanish. It always happened when he blinked or looked away for a split second; he was starting to suspect that this was timed so that John wouldn't see how he was doing it. For someone so thin he did have a strange penchant for junk food that baffled John. Nachos, burgers, slushies, and fried food of every variety seemed to be as consistent as his spear.

It is when the strange becomes every day that the mundane, the humdrum normalcy of an everyday life, takes on a romantic and appealing quality. Alice was confused by everything she saw down the rabbit hole, but how confusing was it when she got back and things were... Boring. It is the essence of a phrase that has become so common, and such an acceptance of defeat; “the new normal”.

Chapter 39

His grandfather was wearing a very old fashioned looking suit, it looked good on him, but it must have been murder wearing it out in the desert. John walked behind him, trying to keep up as they walked across dunes and past a lot of damn nothing. He was envious of his grandfather’s walking stick because he kept stumbling in the soft sand. They marched on in silence all day, his grandfather Joseph and he under the blazing sun. As it sank towards the edge of the sky, they came to a flat littered with smooth stones and the sand was packed hard, so it was easier to walk. John could smell smoke and bread, they were expected.

When they arrived at the fire pit the Tribesman greeted them with wooden cups full of water that was cool, refreshing and tasted of mint. There was a kettle to one side of the fire with coals heaped around its base, and there was bread of some kind frying in a pan next to it. They sat on weather scarred rocks, and no one spoke, no one had to. It simply was as it should be. They ate, drank tea, and watched the coals cool under the stars and moon. When the embers had almost gone totally dark, and the night sat among them. Joseph produced a pipe and tobacco from his vest pocket. He carefully packed the tobacco and lit it with a match. The smell of the smoke was pleasant compared to the menthol’s that Owen smoked; it had a civilized feel to it.

“This was never meant to be this way, to learn in solitude without family, and a careful hand to guide you.” His grandfather said in a sad voice. “Magic and the power it brings is a burden to any God fearing soul who seeks to understand it. To those without morals or scruples it is the devils blessing, and they corrupt and devour at their leisure what takes lifetimes to build honestly.” He paused and smoked thoughtfully for a moment. “There are no easy challenges in life, make no mistake about that, but this one is exceptional. If you rise to the burden and meet the challenges that it brings, it may never bring you riches, but it will bring you great joy, and you will see wonders that few mortal eyes ever glimpse.” Another long pause as the tribesman passed around more cups with more strangely mint flavored water.

“Rise to meet it boy. Rise to meet the challenges or else they will hold you down.”

John woke up to his alarm feeling disorientated and confused. He had never even seen a picture of his great grandfather, but the dream had been so vivid and total in its reality that he felt he would know him anywhere. He shouldn't complain though it was better than dreaming about the fire and the factory again. He got the message too, he just didn't know if that message was from his subconscious, a long dead relative, or a strange tribesman. He ignored it though and went about getting ready for his day. It wasn't that John didn't want to know, it was that he had come to a point where he knew what to ask and not ask. Some questions only brought doubt about reality and those were not the ones he could face.

Chapter 40

Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon, and it held a depressive quality for John, it was the first holiday that he would truly spend alone. He had not always been able to make it home to see his father, but he had called every year, and then Barb had been there with him to keep him company. They had tried their best to put together thanksgiving dinners every year with the first attempt being an utter disaster and every year improving slowly after that. He wanted to cook this year, but there didn't seem much point in doing it alone and that hurt.

He tried to distract himself by studying for his midterms, but he found himself feeling surprisingly confident and prepared for the test in his math class. Things at the shop were surprisingly busy; Owen said that there was always a rush before and after the holidays with a lull in the middle. So that helped a lot, but not enough. Perhaps it was the loneliness or his desperation to find something else to think about, but without thinking about it or realizing it, John found himself thinking of Radha more and more. Even today, as he waited his turn for a vending machine, he was thinking of her and looking forward to seeing her in class. He wanted to talk to her, dreamed of talking to her (and more), but he felt intimidated by her beauty, to say nothing of the intelligence she demonstrated in class. What you and I both know though is that Radha also wanted to talk to him and when she saw him waiting his turn at the vending machine decided to bump into him literally and very purposefully.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Said Radha sweetly

“That's okay.” John smiled and was briefly stupefied again by the brilliance of her eyes.

They both desperately seized the moment to talk.

“Did you...”

“How come...”

John and Radha spoke at once and stopped together and made solid eye contact as they tried not to cut each other off... And they laughed. There are moments when you know things about people, how you feel about them or a truth about them, for better or worse there are those moments. Here, they were in a moment together. John saw that Radha really was very approachable and wanted him to approach her. Radha saw that John was polite and kind. Small things that matter in the grand scheme of things, but we knew that already didn't we?

“We're gonna be late to class...” John looked at his watch nervously.

“Nothing new to me.” Radha smiled.

“I know.” John laughed, and Radha cut him off before he could start again.

“You've been watching me?” She said with a coy smile on her lips.

“How could I not?” John unintentionally said the right thing and hurried on thinking he had said the wrong thing. “We're gonna be late but can I buy you lunch after class?”

“No, because I have to get to work, but you can buy me tea before class next time.” She started to walk towards class and John followed her, forgetting that he had intended to buy a drink. “Do you know where the coffee shop is down the street?”

“Yeah, the one on Magnolia?”

“Is eight good?” Radha suddenly felt like she was being too direct and reminded herself to be more careful in the future not to give him the wrong idea. She wondered briefly what it was about John that made her direct when normally she was reserved.

“Sure, eight it is.” John wished the walk to class had taken longer, but he also was terrified he was going to say the wrong thing again. He held the door for her and had a hard time focusing on anything else for the rest of the day.

Chapter 41

John could smell her tea from across the table, it was spicy and exotic compared to the taste of his over sweetened coffee. He had wanted to sit outside in the small sitting area the coffee shop had by the sidewalk, but it was starting to rain and was a bit too cool for it anyways. He wanted to play it cool and still be romantic, sure it was just coffee before class, but he wanted it to be as close to perfect as it could be.

“So you have a slight accent, where are you from?” Radha asked before sipping her tea.

“I do?” Radha smiled and nodded. John had never considered himself to have an accent or even thought about it. “Saint Paul, Minnesota. It's not that different from Chicago in some ways.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not anymore.”

“Don't you have family back there?”

“My father died a few months back so not anymore.”

“I'm so sorry.” A lot of people say that when they hear you've lost a family member, and as you grieve you get sick of hearing it, but when Radha said it John felt real feelings and empathy in her words.

“How about you?”

“I grew up here.”

“In Chicago?” John realized that was why she didn't have an accent and suddenly saw how stupid it was to think that way. To allow stupid ideas and stereotypical thinking to influence his way of thinking, he had to be more open minded than that.

“Yeah, my parents moved here from India after they got married.” She paused to sip her tea and just as John was starting to feel that he should ask something else she started again. “I'm the youngest; I have two brothers and a sister.”

“Must be nice having a big family.”

“It was. Very noisy though.” She paused and her eyes clouded over briefly. “We don't talk anymore.”

“Oh.” John found himself fumbling with what to say. “I...”

“It's not something I usually bring up.” She cut him off and spoke quickly as if she might think twice before saying what she wanted. “It's just one of those things that you don't understand unless your family is from India.”

“Try me.”

“Hmm?”

“I've seen a lot of crazy s**t and been through some bad times, I might understand.” It's strange, but hunting crazed magical killers through the city tends to put everything else into perspective.

“Okay.” She hesitated and looked at John’s eyes and seemed to make some internal decision before going on. “They took me to India on a vacation; to meet family they said, and while we there they tried to force me to marry a man they had picked out for me. When I argued they told me this is tradition, how they were married and how my sister was married. When I argued again, they told me I had a choice, but asked that I at least meet him, so I did. He was rude and mean, so I refused again. When we came back to the states, my father threw me out of the house and forbid my brothers and sisters to talk to me.” Her story spilled from her in a torrent, and while John knew there were more edges and splinters to draw blood hidden in details the overall facts were obviously painful enough.

“Wow.” Whispered John.

“Most Americans don't understand.”

“It's not that I don't understand, it's that I don't get how a father could be so hard on his daughter.”

“He really is a good man, he’s just very traditional and he just doesn’t understand that I don't want my life to be like that. My mom and dad have an arranged marriage and neither one of them seems happy to me, I've seen arranged marriages that were very happy...” She paused ever so briefly and looked into her tea. “I just want it to be my choice.”

John saw her there staring into her tea and not seeing anything. There were people coming and going around them, students and office workers rushing to work, they seemed to exist outside their tiny bubble for this moment. He suddenly saw how lonely she was and that it hurt her that what she thought was right for her was against her family’s wishes.

“I'm sorry, I misunderstood.” John examined his own cooling coffee. “You must be very lonely without them, especially after being surrounded by so many people for so long.”

“It's been hard, but work and school keep me busy, so I don't think about it too often.”

“I know since I started school I haven't had time to do anything.”

“Where do you work?”

“At a pawn shop over on Western.”

“Really? Is it kinda sleazy?”

“No. I mean we get some interesting people in, but Owen runs a legit business.” John found himself hesitant to talk about the shop, it was too closely related to Owen teaching him magic and all the madness that involved. “Where do you work?”

“I work as a cashier during the week and then on weekends I work in a bookstore over on Clark Street.” Her cell phone started blasting a siren sound so horrible that several other people in the coffee shop looked over in a startled manner. Radha quickly pulled it from her purse and silenced it with deft fingers. “We are now officially late to class.”

“I was wondering....” John hefted his backpack.

“Yes.”

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend?”

“Yes.”

John noticed her struggling with her heavy backpack and offered a hand. Radha smiled and let him carry it as they rushed to class.

Chapter 42

Their first date went well, very well, so well that it shocked John. They had gone to dinner at a small Thai restaurant that Radha had suggested, and it was great food with even better conversation. John found himself at first intimidated by her, she was well traveled and spoke several languages, but she wore it naturally and blushed whenever she caught him looking at her. So in the end he felt not intimidated but fascinated by her and couldn't look away. The movie they went to was a romantic comedy, not what John usually watched, but they laughed and midway through the movie she was holding his hand.

They took a cab to her place, and he walked her to the door, and those wild thoughts that go through every guy’s head on a date were going through John’s, he knew he had to keep them under control or he was going to ruin a good thing. A mixture of love and lust is a volatile thing. Radha saw that he was nervous and she was pretty sure she knew what was going through his head because not so different thoughts were going through her own mind. But she was nervous for different reasons by the time they got to the front door of her building.

“I had a great time, John.” She turned to face John.

“So did I.”

“I want to do this again, soon.”

“I was hoping so, I'd like to see you again... Outside of class.”

“I need you to know something though.”

John’s heart sank, and he suddenly wondered where this was going.

“You're not coming upstairs to my apartment, ever.”

“Huh?”

“I'm not like other girls you've dated. No sex before marriage, no fooling around.”

“Oh.” John was somehow relieved that it wasn't something else, but was frustrated with himself for his previous immature ideas of what might happen.

“If that's something you can't handle then I'm sorry.” For all the blushing and flirting that had gone on earlier in the evening, there was now stone in her voice and cold fire in her eyes. John realized that this was not a timid girl but a woman with fire in her blood and a well-earned iron will.

“I can handle it, but can I kiss you good night?”

“Don't tell me you're fine with it and change...”

“Radha!”

“What?”

“I'm fine with it, can I kiss you good night?”

“Y-yes.” She blushed again.

They kissed, and were oblivious to the world, till one of Radha's neighbors interrupted them, they were blocking the door to the building.

Chapter 43

John sat on his bed listening to the radio, he still hadn't bought a TV. It was turning into one of those things that he only thought about when he was home with nothing to do, in other words never, well... Except for right then, the middle of the afternoon and he had done his laundry, cleaned his dishes, gotten a head start on his school work for the next week, and was now with nothing to do. So he sat on his bed and tried not to feel alone on Thanksgiving Day.

He thought about calling Radha. He thought about calling her a lot, but the one time he did around noon he got her voice mail and he didn't want to seem creepy after only one date. The shop was closed, and Owen was off to where ever Owen was he never talked about his personal life so John could only guess. So here he was alone on Thanksgiving Day and letting it drag him down.

John showered and dressed before walking out the door. Normally parking was a commodity by his apartment, anywhere in the neighborhood really, but that afternoon there was hardly a handful of cars to be had. It was disquieting, and it was easy for John to imagine that The Plague had come and wiped out most of the city, taking their cars with them. He walked to the local greasy spoon that called itself “the best 24 hour pancake house in Chicago” but the best things on the menu were the burgers. All the same John embraced his adventurous side and tried the turkey dinner special. There were only a few other souls in the diner, and a family in the corner booth, that had stopped on their way to or from somewhere. The whole thing felt sad but not so lonely, so John lingered over his meal as long as he could before going home.

John walked into his small studio apartment and looked around; it was home in name only. He could vanish off the face of the earth, and there was nothing in this room that would leave a clue as to whom he was and what he had struggled against in his life. Nothing but The Book and his grandfather’s ring would truly speak of his life. The strangest, most important, powerful, and darkest part of his life was the only clue as to who he had become. And yet, he barely understood it himself. John suddenly felt angry.

It was not an immediate burning rage that boils over and must be shouted and stomped about; it was a cold seething existential anger. His life had been one mad event after another since finding The Book. He had killed and almost been killed, and he would never be in control of his life till... He paused internally. He had almost thought about destroying it, but that repulsed him because it was the last thing he had left of his family and the one thing that he hung his future on. Not anymore, now there was another reason for a future; Radha. He scolded himself, one date, and he was acting a fool over her, best to be patient.

He pulled The Book and key out of their hiding place in the closet, sat on his bed, and again started trying to decode the strange language. It had frustrated him to no end that he couldn't make sense of it. There was no way someone had gone through all the trouble to make something so random that anyone could open it and discover magic. There had to be more, a secret message at least. It was maddening. He felt like it was something obvious and he was a fool for not seeing it or figuring it out after all the time he had spent staring at it. Perhaps that was the problem, and he needed to look at it fresh again.

He closed The Book and pulled the key out and set them side by side on his bed. Then he slowly and deliberately looked at every inch of The Book testing for hidden compartments and tracing his fingers over the patterns etched in its surface. He found nothing new but marveled again at the perfection of detail and craftsmanship that must have gone into creating the cursed thing. Putting it down John looked at the key and wondered about it without picking it up. It almost seemed too ordinary to belong to such an extraordinary object, a skeleton key like millions of others. It seemed exceptional only in that it was made of the same material as the book... John paused. The book was at least a hundred years old, and there was not a scratch or imperfection on it while the key was made of the same strange not-gold material and yet it had scratches up and down the length of it. How?

John went to his small kitchenette and pulled one of his two forks from a drawer, then savagely tried to scratch the cover of The Book with it. He broke one of the tines off of the fork and did no damage to The Book. He tried scratching the key with the fork, making the best of the jagged edges where he had broken it, but it did nothing. So they couldn't be scratches that spiraled up and down the key, they had to have been deliberately put there, but why?

He put the key into The Book; there was no scraping or resistance and the cover popped open slightly as always. John pushed the cover closed, it clicked and the key loosened. He wiggled the key and felt only an eerie soft resistance. He pushed the key in further till the resistance increased, then he turned the key and the cover popped open to new pages.

Chapter 44

Only a few months stood between the first time John opened The Book and when he figured out where the hidden pages were a short moment or two in an overall lifetime. What you do in a moment or two can change a lifetime though and he had changed a great deal in those months and he had also laid the groundwork for even greater change within himself. The thing that would surprise John though was how little it had to do with magic and how much it had to do with his sense of worth and his force of will. So with all this change and the madness John was prepared for what came next, he had expected it, but he never expected to be able to control it.

The click of the metallic pages vanished behind the blinding light with everything else and was replaced with the fantastic. He was aware that this was an elaborate illusion woven through careful manipulation and that he had it within his power to stop it. The illusion that he found himself immersed in took his breath away because of the skill needed to create it, because of the beauty of the scene it presented, and because it is one thing to understand the history, and it was another to see it.

He stood in a vast room with a high ceiling, long billowing curtains hung along the walls and everything seemed to be made of stone that was polished to a mirror like perfection. Through arches at the far end of the room, he could see bright blue sky and feel a dry breeze that carried scents he did not recognize. His footsteps echoed only slightly as he walked towards the arches and out on to a large balcony with a low railing and so many plants that it looked as if someone had tried to transplant a section of jungle to the terrace. The air was so dry that opening his mouth in the slightest made his tongue feel dry and leathery.

Hanging in the crystal perfect blue sky, the sun looked bright, brighter than he ever remembered it being. He shielded his eyes till they adjusted to the glare, and once they did he was unsurprised to see sand dunes stretching to the horizons. He was atop some vast citadel overlooking a vast lifeless desert in what he felt must be Egypt.

“I am pleased that you have joined our ranks, for our numbers dwindle every year and soon we will be too few to rule.” He turned towards the woman’s voice, and made the conclusion that if it wasn’t Egypt, then it was made by an Egyptian. He had missed her because of the glare at first, but now that his eyes had adjusted to the sun his mind had to adjust to her. To say that she was beautiful would be to diminish her in an almost insulting way. Her dark skin was smooth and flawless, her hair trimmed perfectly at her shoulders and framed her face in a full and flawless way, and on the crown of her head a golden cobra poised to strike. The shape of her figure was accented by the simplicity of the white gown she wore, hugging curves but providing freedom of movement as she lounged in a simple chair. She was perhaps the most exotic woman John had ever seen and at the same time so sensuously beautiful that it left him standing slack jawed.

“We deserve what has come to us. Others would argue with me and insist that we were meant to rule the unenlightened; they are fools though and will soon vanish to time. We had been cruel masters to our fellow man even when we wished to show kindness, we have all their failings and very seldom do we share their virtues. It is good that this era will end, and I would not wish it to last, but I fear the end of magic more than I fear my own death. It will not save us, we who touch this are damned to suffering and trials for the rest of our time on this world and only death will bring us peace, but we must use it to save and protect everything and everyone we hold dear.” She paused and looked into the distance behind John; in the silence he could hear the sand in the wind.

“I listened to Moloch.” She continued with darkness in her eyes, not sorrow but fathomless anger. “As the fool lay dying I went to him, and he told me the truth that everyone else denies and refuse to accept as anything but madness. The evils he saw, the demons that hounded and tortured him were real, and they seek this tiny gem of a world so that they can bring it to flames. The fool thought this was because of magic and that we may cast it aside and live free from danger for all time. But in listening to him I realized that it was not just magic they feared, but our very existence as if we were the seed that could never be allowed to sprout and bear fruit.” She gently shook her head and looked down. “I am not brave or fool enough to confirm my suspicions by going where he went, nor do I have time. The fools trap has sprung on us, and we proud few fight in a burning building rather than banding together against this calamity, this is the final proof that our arrogance and cruelty must end. No more shall Gods walk among men and govern them.”

She stood and walked to the edge of the balcony next to John. “Now, we must serve as Sheppard’s and make amends for our evils and remain strong through the long night that is to come so that when the true danger is at the gates we are ready. That is why I have sheltered my library and knowledge in these books. It is my plan that the line of teacher and student should stretch, unbroken from this distant past to…” She paused and slowly inhaled deeply. “To a future I can’t imagine to protect it from a horror even more unimaginable. To insure that when Moloch’s devils arrive there is a Guardian there to greet them with all the suffering they deserve. I hope you shall never see it yet you must train for it as if it were upon your doorstep. I have no way to know if you are worthy, but since your teachers have brought you this far they have faith in you, and I have faith in them. So this is your heritage…”

At the last moment, John realized he was in danger and tried to slam the book closed, but it takes time for those impulses to travel through clumsy and slow human nerves and muscles, it only took a microsecond for a message to leap across thousands of years.

Chapter 45

There was a series of bright flashes accompanied by several loud bangs and a hissing noise. John’s senses did not so much as reel as stand up and promptly fall down again before demanding to know what the hell had just happened. Every cell in his body that could broadcast to the brain was desperately trying to send an urgent message that had to be acted on. One was hot, the other cold, another in total ecstasy and yet another was convinced that it was being chewed thoughtfully by a toothless llama. The sensory overload washed over him and did not relent till he was desperate to escape, so he fled through the collapsing corridors of his mind to one place he imagined might be safe. That inner large and empty place that somehow connected to his ability to do magic, that vastness inside that had appeared after opening The Book the first time, he fled there without thought or reason except to escape.

He leaped into that void and instantly felt relief, not because the mad singles had stopped burning up and down the lines of his nerves but because he now felt separate from them. He floated and drifted in an inner nothing and watched the chaos wash over his brain from a safe and peaceful distance. He waited for it to fade, but it did not. He reached into himself out of the void, and it was like touching a power cable that someone had jammed into a bowl of jelly that left him seeing vanilla and smelled like the sound of a truck grinding its gears. It was chaos in the truest sense of the word and handfuls at a time were not the way to deal with it.

So slowly and carefully he started snatching bits of information and dragging it into the vastness. Each time following the pattern of the signal back to its source and making sense of it before moving on. It was slow frustrating work, but John found in himself patience that he had never known he possessed, it had been hidden somewhere, but now it served him well. Slowly and steadily he picked signals and made sense of them one by one till he had a toe, then a foot, a leg, and then a hip. He couldn’t rush, dared not rush, but he couldn’t slow down or stop, it had to be done in one constant movement now that he had started. Life times seemed to slip away as he worked, his senses were too incomplete to connect him to the outside world, and what information he gained was slim. In time though he finished and was in anguish that he no longer had tenuous bits of himself to sort and organize. When he finally opened his eyes and dared feel the abused nerves of his self all at once it was with satisfaction that he had gotten it right, amazement that only a few moments had passed, and he was shocked at what his careful work had done.

He opened his eyes to a new reality. He could see patterns and threads without effort or thought, far clearer than he had ever been able to before. At first he had smiled and been proud, here was an achievement that would surprise even Owen! When he tried to step away from what had once been an empty inner space, he couldn’t, nor could he close it off like he could before. It only took a moment’s thought to realize why. In his desperation, to stop the pain and confusion, he had pulled himself into that emptiness and by pulling thread after thread in he had anchored himself there. After thinking for a moment, John shook his head slowly and whispered; “What the f**k did I just do to myself?”

Chapter 46

John was angry but had no one to be angry with but himself. He felt trapped in a stream of events that did nothing but get stranger and more difficult to cope with. Sure, he had adjusted to the idea of life as a mage with unimaginable power that was so dangerous and complicated that simple use of it seemed to attract the attention of lots of bad people and have dangerous consequences. Sure, he had even started to better himself and move forward with his life, but it was a balancing act that he was still learning. He was even learning to cope with seeing the strange silent Tribesman. But it was hard enough when he could shut it off and pretend to be normal, but what the hell was he supposed to do now that he couldn’t shut it off?

He closed his eyes and was not amused or surprised that he could see the forces at play in his eye lids. The steady pulse of his heartbeat pushing blood through his veins was reassuring against the backdrop of his eyelids pattern. How the hell was he supposed to sleep?! He sat up and fumbled for his cell phone. He turned it on, and it flooded the room with an extremely faint blue pattern of radio waves that rippled and bounced as his phone connected to the network. He dialed the number for Owen’s shop in a flurry and hit the green button. The blue ripples rushed and bounced in a frantic march before a ripple came back through the walls, and he could hear the phone ringing on the other end. When the archaic answering machine that Owen insisted on using clicked on John realized it was very late, and Owen had said he would be out of town.

He wanted to call Radha and at least hear her comforting voice, but how could he explain any of this to her and not have her think he was crazy. The idea of her turning away from him seemed more horrible than the hell he already found himself in and it shocked him. A couple of dates and he was feeling the need to have her as a permanent part of his life? It was more insane than magic and more ridiculous than some terror from beyond that he had guard against and wonder about. Yet, it was an idea that he liked.

Love to John was a cruel thing that somehow always ended up with him standing alone clutching his emotional wounds and wondering how he dared to go on and dream of anything else. He was still young, and Barbara had been his first real girlfriend, yet there were women he had lusted after and wanted in the same way that we all want faster cars and better homes. He thought it was what would make him happy. Radha had hardly entered his life, and he could already tell it was something different with her. You and I know that when you realize you have feelings for someone you have already had those feelings for a long time and that it is far too late to pretend otherwise. This opens to the door to the idea of love at first sight, and while I can’t condone such emotionally reckless policies, as your narrator, I am stuck in the difficult position of saying that John already had strong feelings for Radha. Feelings strong enough that they would cloud his thinking at later times and… But, really it clouds all our thinking at times till we realize that we just have to live with this pleasant mental illness known as love.

No matter how you look at it the idea of going crazy kept John awake the rest of the night and most of the next day. He struggled to shut off his ability to see the patterns and his inability to disconnect his mind from the slow flood of information he was getting. He knew when anyone in the building turned on a cell phone or sent a text message, he couldn’t listen in, but he saw the potential for that because there was a distinct pattern to the rippling quicksilver waves that flowed past him. He could tell where the mice were in the walls because he could see their body heat change the surface temperature of the wall ever so slightly. He also could plainly see that someone had painted over something by the door to his bathroom, because whatever it, was under different strains and stresses than the paint around it.

John got up and got a knife out of the drawer in his tiny kitchenette. He approached the patch of paint by the bathroom door and ran his hand over the surface; it gave ever so slightly under the pressure. There was something there, hidden in the wall, a long time ago. He delicately raised the knife and tried to pick the edge of the hidden space beneath the paint. At the moment that he was about to cut into the wall John stopped. I as your faithful narrator realize it's not fair to do this to you, but I have to be truthful to events. John didn't cut into the wall. He put the knife away and sat on the bed staring at the small bit of wall with an angry feeling slithering around in his gut. As of late his curiosity had gotten him into trouble and he was second guessing if he wanted to know what was in his wall. He decided to be cautious and wait till he knew more. John fell asleep staring at that bit of wall and had nightmares of a nest of spiders hidden within and when they hatched they tried to devour everything and left behind the most beautiful webs.

Chapter 47

John woke up showered and dressed with an acute awareness of how different the world suddenly was, he paused to correct himself, how different his perception of the world was. He wanted to appreciate the beauty and wonder that was suddenly open to him, but he also wanted to be in control, to be able to shut it off. Some small part of him knew he was in too far for help, past his measure of wisdom and skill that John had come to depend on for so much over the past few months. He had to try though and had to hope that he could be... Normal was out of the question a long time ago, he just wanted to be able to fake it.

The cold winter air was a welcome slap in the face, it was bracing, and reassuring as he walked to the Brown line stop on Montros. It was a long walk, and he could have taken the red line and transferred, but there was a screaming urgency for direct lines in John’s mind. It was reinforced when he sat down on the L, and the Tribesman was in the window seat next to him. For a brief instant, John was enraged, and he could feel himself getting hot on the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to let his imaginary friend have a few choice words, when he noticed how startled the Tribesman looked and slowly realized that he was startled about John. In a flash of realization, John knew that the Tribesman knew somehow that he was different.

There was silent and awkward moment that was broken when the Tribesman pulled a bright plastic bag that had been tucked by his feet, pulled out a doughnut that was apparently filled with over sweet fake jelly, and offered it to John with a sorrowful smile. John accepted the doughnut; it was fresh, still warm. He took a bite of it without taking his eyes off the Tribesman, who fidgeted with his spear and plastic bag.

“I'm sorry.” Said the tribesman with a British accent better suited to high tea than doughnuts and spears. John was so shocked he stopped in mid bite. “We had no idea you had a complete Primer. We... I thought you just had a fragment, like Owen's. Had I known...” He shook his head sadly, and his iron gray dreadlocks swayed gently. They reminded John of a weeping willow.

“Help me with this.”

“I can't yet. You have set in motion a storm of events that is still gaining strength. If you survive it, we'll talk. I'll tell you this though, there is no turning back.” With that the Tribesman's pattern folded itself flat, then bent in on itself and vanished along a thin golden thread that arced south and over the horizon.

John sat there in a frustrated silence till it was time to get off the train.

Owen's pawn shop was surrounded by police cars with their lights on, there were a few news vans across the street and directly in front of the door was an ambulance with its lights off. John was filled with a sense of dread as he walked towards the yellow police tape that kept a small crowd at bay and was watched over by a young officer.

“What happened?” John asked, trying not to sound anxious.

“Nothing, move along.” It almost sounded like a damn joke.

“I work here, what happened?”

“Wait here.” The officer stepped back and conferred with his radio in hushed tones. After a few moments, he stepped forward and asked him; “You John Carter?”

“Yeah.” John answered, wondering how bad it could be, after all the FBI was supposedly already watching him.

“The detectives want to talk to you.” The officer lifted the yellow tape and escorted him into the store where a number of plain clothes cops were leaning against the counter talking. The door to the back room was open, and John could see a lot of activity but had a hard time figuring out what was going on.

“You Carter?” Asked one of the cops, he had on a cheap winter coat over layers of clothing and looked anything but police like.

“Yeah. Is Owen OK?”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Asked his partner who was dressed like he either had just left or was on his way to a dance club.

“A couple days ago when I was at work. I called yesterday, but no one answered. Is Owen all right?” John was getting fed up with having the police in his life so often.

“He got shot this morning. Do you know anyone that would wanna hurt him?”

“No.” How was he gonna explain that there was some model perfect b***h that threatened to kill them both without explaining why. What was he supposed to do say; “Oh, yeah. There is this one woman who is pissed off because we weren't discrete enough when we killed a magical madman that I created somehow.” John was a lot of things, but dumb enough to say that was not one of them.

“How long you been working for him?”

“A couple of months.”

“You own a gun?”

“No.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

John was about to make a smart a*s comment but stopped himself because he knew where this was going. Either they were intimidating him to see what would happen, or they thought he did it, and a smart a*s remark, no matter how funny, was not the way to go. “Officer, when I was broke and had no place else to turn Owen gave me a job. He tried to look after me and be a father figure. Owen was perhaps the smartest man I've ever met and he helped me a lot. I would never hurt him.”

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you got caught slipping cash out of the register. The two of you argued, and you shot him with a gun you stole out of the back room.”

“No.” Owen’s death was a shock that instantly changed John’s demeanor.

“Where were you last night?”

“Home, asleep.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Cuff’em and take’em in.” The detective smiled in a cruel way. What John had no way of knowing was that this particular detective no longer cared. He just wanted his cases closed, and the judge could sort out who was guilty or innocent.

John was handcuffed and read his Miranda rights before being taken outside to a waiting police car. As he was waiting for the officer to pull away, John looked out the window at the small crowd across the street. Most of them were bland, one was not and neither was his pattern.

There was a guy standing at the back of the crowd with a smirk. He was tall and looked like one of the guys you see striking a pose in an expensive suit for a fashion magazine for men. You know the kind, nice suits on one page, and scantily clad women on the next. His pattern was muffled, hidden, by the pattern of his coat. It was a neat trick and John made a point of remembering it, being invisible might be useful someday. There was another thing about him that troubled John, he was wearing a purple scarf that was easily the counterpart to the one that B***h, (yes, she deserved a capital B) Veronica wore.

The squad car pulled away, and as John lost sight of the guy in the crowd he was enraged. Owen was killed for imaginary control over territories that no longer mattered; he was killed for power and control over nothing. He felt tears of rage and sorrows start to compete with each other and relented to their conflict. Slumping low in the back seat he let the city go by because he was alone again. John sadly mused that the more we look up to fathers and mentors, the more painful the void is when they are gone.

Chapter 48

The police fingerprinted him and took his picture this time, it was not amusing. John wandered between depression and anger with frequent stops at frustration. He could do a lot to catch Owen's killer if people would just get the hell out of his way. It was easy for him to see how a truly powerful and skilled mage would be tempted to use their abilities to sidestep all this and just get things done. So easy that he was toying with the idea himself; finally they were done processing him and dumped him in an interrogation room, handcuffed to a rail on the table.

After a while, a couple of new detectives walked in and started to interview him. At first they played nice, and after he stuck to the truth they started pressuring him. Explaining just how hard it was gonna be on him if he kept lying, how long he was gonna be in jail, and a very graphic explanation of how he was going to be raped in prison. John was sick of it. He almost told one of the detectives that he could see the tumor behind his left ear; it was an incongruous pattern that was unpleasant to look at.

“Look, Johnny.” Said the man with the tumor. “Just tell us where you put the gun and why you killed him. So we can get this over with.”

“What? So we can all go home and forget it?” John was sick of it. “I didn't do it, I have no idea who did it, and I...” John was interrupted when Special Agent Harris entered the room unannounced, she was carrying a large expensive briefcase.

“I'm sorry, John. Were you asking for a lawyer?”

“I was and am, asking for a lawyer.” John knew full well he would never get a lawyer while Agent Harris was around.

“Too bad.” Said Agent Harris through a venomous smile, the two detectives, looked at her, startled that she had so blatantly violated their suspect’s rights. They were both painfully aware of the camera and microphone in the room and were wondering how to get out of the situation. “Gentlemen, this suspect and I have a history, as of now he's in FBI custody. Your CO has all the paperwork.”

“He killed the pawn shop owner...”

“No, he didn't, and we can prove it. We've had him under surveillance for some time.” The detectives looked at each other and wordlessly decided it was best not to mess with a Fed's suspect, so they left.

Special agent Harris set her briefcase on the table and looked at John for a moment, gloating before opening her briefcase with a snap of latches. She removed a small ceramic disc and set it on the table between them, she ran her finger around the edge of it, and the center had a faint blue glow. John was not surprised that it altered the general patterns of the room and space around them.

“Don't worry; it just prevents recording or eavesdropping.”

“I can see that.”

“I'm sure you can.” She pulled a large manila folder out of her briefcase. “You're in deep now, about to die. Veronica and her pretty boy are going to off you like they did the others, like they did Owen.” John sat back and said nothing, he studied Harris's pattern. She was dying her hair to cover some premature gray, perhaps it was the stress of the job? He also noted an old scare in her pattern on her right side; it went under her liver and to her back. She’d been shot.

“I suppose you're here to save me and put me somewhere you can study me.”

“At this point we can't interfere.”

“Why the rescue me since you can’t interfere?”

“Because as dumb as you are there is a chance you'll survive, no chance you'll survive getting shanked in jail.”

“You keep saying I’m in danger.”

“Veronica has killed a lot of other mages, not always for territory. Our sources tell us she is looking for and may have found some ancient golden book.”

“She's killing people for a book?” John tried not to think about The Book, the Primer as the Tribesman had called it that was hidden in his apartment. At no point did John feel that it should be seen by the FBI or any other government agency.

“No, past tense because we think she has one.” She paused and looked at him for a moment and seemed to be measuring him, even though she felt he was lacking and not up to the task, she had no choice. “No more games, John”

She opened the manila folder on the desk and spread out several photos. They were crime scene photos of dead bodies. Men and women slumped in pools of blood. There was one that was different though, it was a charred and almost skeletal body on an autopsy table. She held up Veronica’s picture. “We know about her. Tell me about him and I will tell you who killed Owen and where to find him.” She put mug shot of the man he had shot on the table next to morgue photo.

“Who was he?”

“A career criminal, mostly small time, he was wanted for the sexual assault of some college girls.” Agent Harris saw John relax slightly and felt she might have an advantage. “I know who did it.” She locked eyes with him for a heartbeat. “Why?”

“He saw a pattern; he wasn't meant to see it and couldn't understand it. He went insane.”

“Pattern? You mean spell?”

“Call it what you want.”

“Where did he find the pattern?”

“When my apartment got waterlogged my notebook got soaked, and the ink ran. I think he found it there, but I don't know how.” John again felt the shame and guilt of being foolish all over again.

“He was working with his uncle, who worked for your landlord doing maintenance work. You saved the tax payers the price of a trial, he was scum. Why did the spells drive him crazy?”

“Go ask your 'sources', because I don't know.” John was uncomfortable with talking about these things so openly with anyone but Owen. He sighed and accepted that he was going to be missing Owen for a very long time. “Now tell me about who killed Owen, was it Veronica?”

“No, but she was behind it.” She handed John a photograph of the guy he had seen lurking across the street from the crime scene, even in the bad surveillance picture he looked like he had posed for it. “His name is Peter Winters. He's Veronica’s boyfriend, and we think student. He's slippery as hell and we have a hard time keeping track of him, but we know he meet her three years ago in New York.”

“Where can I find him?”

“You gonna kill him?”

“I don't know.” John was at least being honest. He had a rage in him that lived off the pain of losing Owen. He had killed before, and he was pretty sure they were going to try and kill him next. This is what Agent Harris had been suggesting all along.

Agent Harris looked at John, measuring him, would he? Could he? Should she let him? Was it the only way to stop Veronica and protect the innocent? If she let him go, and he killed Peter they could use that to control him. It was pretty clear John had killed the other guy but there was no way to prove it. This was dangerous territory ethically, there was no question that she would be responsible if she let John go and he killed. He would be killing another mage though and putting himself firmly in her grasp. “He's staying downtown at the Congress Hotel.”

“Am I under arrest still?”

“No.”

“I'm leaving.” John, for the first time, used magic in front of someone other than Owen. He applied a bit of force to the ratchet that locked the handcuffs, and they fell away as he stood up. Agent Harris was unimpressed and not surprised.

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 room mates 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 check book or getting his school work done. Telling her though 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 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 limos 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.”

“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 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 s**t 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 plays 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. Yet, 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. Forced into a way of life he didn't want and 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 was 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 too?”

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 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 we 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 seeing patterns; it was pure chance that he saw it as it was. John slipped across the street and worked up to a run as he approached the ally he put the finishing touches on a theory and decided to test it.

He ran to the same dumpster and loosened gravities hold on himself so he could jump to the roof top, he landed with a grace that surprised himself 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 both 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 and he saw 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, laying there where he had dropped. As is it rang a name flashed across the screen; “Veronica”. John laughed to himself as he shoved it in his pocket. He lightly dropped to the street below, scaring the hell out of people walking by. Running across the street John saw Peters gun laying 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 his overcoat and pushed him to the ground he grunted weekly 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.”

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

“No. Not anymore.”

“John! Put the f*****g 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.”

“F**k 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. 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 John’s 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.”

“You're an idiot! Do you have any idea what you're doing turning me over to them?” Peter was being hoisted off the ground in a rough manner by the agents.

“It's better than you deserve.” John dropped the pistol and turned away from the muzzle of Agent Harris's gun.

“Don't move.”

“No.” John kept walking down the alley towards the far end.

“Don't push me, John!”

“Push you?” John turned around and locked eyes with her.

“John, you're turning into a wild card here. You won't last long that way. Come and work for us, you’ll be safer.” Agent Harris lowered her gun and there was an audible click as she hit the safety with her thumb.

“No.” John turned and started walking away.

“Don't think I'm cleaning up your mess for you, John” She called after him when he reached the corner. “Everyone gets held accountable eventually.” He rounded the corner and walked under the L tracks to the street. If she said anything else, it was lost in the noise of a passing train, John walked down the sidewalk towards people and shops. No acted as if there had just been gunfire, no one seemed to notice the sirens in the distance. Peter's cell phone started to ring in his pocket, he had forgotten it. He pulled it out and looked at the screen with a smile. It was flashing the name “Veronica”. John hit the answer button and held it to his ear but said nothing.

“Peter! What the hell is going on? Did you kill that b***h?”

“I'm sorry Peter can't come to the phone right now.”

“Who is this?”

“This is John, Veronica. Peter is busy being arrested by the FBI.” It felt good for John to be able to drive that point home.

“I'm going to kill you.” Her voice was a near shout.

“Yes, but you will have to find someone else to help you shave.” This was too much fun.

“I'm gonna kill...” John hung up on her because he had no doubt she could find him through the cell phone. Magic or not there are more than a few apps for finding lost or stolen phones. So he handed it to the first homeless person he passed on the street. By the time, she did find it someone else would have a nice new expensive smart phone, and they could deal with her.

Chapter 51

John was sitting on his bed trying to figure out his life, and if he could get it back in order when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?'

“Is this John?” The voice on the other end was female and pleasant, but not Radha.

“Yeah, and who is this?” John was fully expecting some outlandish addition to his nightmare.

“My name is Paula, I'm Owen's daughter.”

There was a brief pause where John felt lost.

“I'm sorry; I didn't know he had a daughter.”

“I didn't know he had a student till today.”

“I guess Owen kept a lot of secrets.”

“He did. Can you meet me at his shop? I need your help with something.”

“Sure. I'll be there as soon as I can.” He pulled on his coat, found his keys and headed for the door.

When John arrived the lights were on in the shop, and it made him feel sad to know that Owen was not sitting by the register with a book. He knocked on the door and expected to wait but almost immediately a short woman appeared and opened the door.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi, I'm Paula.” She let him in, and they shook hands. She was short and slim with her hair cut very short. She didn't have earrings, but John did notice a small gold stud on her nose.

“You said you needed help?”

“Dad left this letter with his will.” Paula handed him a note covered in Owen’s unique handwriting. John skimmed it and saw that it left instructions that John should be contacted if they couldn’t get into the safe on their own. It had an insulting tone to it.

“You can’t get into the safe in the back?” John was hoping he wouldn’t have to open the hidden safe in the basement.

“No, the one in the basement.” Paula started walking toward the back, so John followed and felt unlucky. “Dad left some pretty specific directions for everything, but he never said how we were supposed to get through his magic trick.” As they approached the basement, John could hear talking.

“I thought you...”

“Knew magic? Hell, no. Dad offered to teach me, but I saw all the trouble it caused with him and grampa, so I refused. He was upset that neither of us learned.” To John that explained the tone of the note.

“Neither?”

“Me or my brother.” They had found their way through the basement and were standing near the corner with the safe. Leaning against the wall and talking were two guys, both had stripped off their shirts and in wore strapped t-shirts holding sledge hammers. “John, this is Junior.” John shook hands with the shorter of the two. He had dark skin, a clean shaven head, and a neatly trimmed beard. “ And this is my husband, Wilson.” As they shook hands Wilson nearly crushed John’s hand. He was muscular, tall, light skinned, and all smile.

“Wil didn't believe me when I told him there was no way we were getting through that wall. I really don't think John here is gonna be able to do it either.” Junior spoke as an authority on the subject with a smirk on his face.

“So you never learned?”

“Naw, dad offered, but he also wanted a lot in exchange for it.” Junior busied himself putting his watch on as he spoke. “He wanted me to go to school, work at the shop, and follow in his footsteps.” John let it go because he sensed there was much more to the story.

“Can you open it? We can't sell the property with stuff hidden in the walls.” Wilson wanted to get to work.

“We also need it open because, in the instructions dad left, he said his deed for the property was in the safe. Can you open it?” Paula pulled herself up and sat on a work bench, looking like a little girl.

“I'll try.” John examined the wall, and it's pattern. It was thin, but he could see how it was hardened and would most likely survive the destruction of the building. There was no opening it unless you were a mage who knew how and John was not sure he knew how. Melting concrete walls wasn't something Owen had taught him. There was no hint in the pattern and no damage to the wall itself, but he could see where they had been hitting it with sledge hammers.

“He can't do it.” Junior said knowingly after a few moments.

“Do you want me to bring the whole building down or blow it up? Cause if I do it wrong that's what's gonna happen here.” John was annoyed and distracted himself by looking at the wall again. There had to be a simple way to do it, something that was in keeping with Owen's direct but different approach to things. Then he realized he was looking at parts of the wall, not the wall as a whole. He stepped back and looked at it again.

Sure the wall was tough as steel, but it had a honeycomb kind of pattern, all interlocking cells within the pattern, but they held empty spaces. He tried collapsing the pattern in different ways, folding it this way and that as gently as he could. The wall rippled and emitted a deep humming noise. He stopped, but John was convinced he was on the right path. So he tried collapsing all the cells to the right. To his amazement they folded flat against each other creating a super dense layer along the floor and revealing the safe.

“So cool.” Whispered Wilson.

Junior crossed his arms and said nothing but his silence was thunderous

“Wow!” Paula clapped and bounced off the table to start spinning dials on the safe.

“You guys take care, I'll show myself out.” There was a different sense here than the one he had felt going through his father’s things. This lacked respect and smelled of a treasure hunt, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

“John, wait a second.” Paula called over her shoulder. The safe clicked open, and she consulted a sheet of paper from her pocket. She pulled out a couple of bundles and a colt .45, placing them on the bench next to John. The brown paper bundles had his name on them. “Dad, said to give these to you.”

John checked to see if the gun was empty, it wasn't, he clicked the safety on. He pulled back a corner of the paper on the two bundles and saw money. He tucked them both in his coat. “Is there a holster in there?”

“Ummm...” Paula pushed Junior out of the way to look into the safe. “Yeah, here you go.” She handed him a soft leather holster that would ride high on a belt for easy concealment.

“This is some cool s**t!” Exclaimed Wilson as he pulled an assault rifle out of the safe. John could only guess what else was in that safe and had no desire to wait around while it was vivisected. He left in silence, and as he climbed the stairs out of the basement heard shouts of joy as Owen's children found his hidden fortune of gold and jewels. John was unaware that eventually they would find the tablet, the fragment of a Primer, and it would bring them nothing but misery.

Chapter 52

It was not what John had in mind when someone said “resort”. First of all it was a long ways from anywhere, not counting the tiny airport that it sat adjacent to. There was a tall building (by suburban standard), attached to a sprawling collection of convention centers, comedy clubs, and indoor pools. He had no doubt it was expensive and well beyond anything that he could afford to stay at. He was fine with that.

The limo pulled up to the front door and a body guard who clearly did not work for the resort approached the driver's window. The features that made it clear he had nothing to do with the hotel were the sunglasses, the poorly concealed gun under his coat, and his hulking frame in general. John was getting used to goons by this point. The FBI had goons, the Chicago Police had goons, other mages had goons, and they were losing their shock value on him. It is a helpful life lesson that you can spend years getting used to the sight of a shark swimming next to you, but you have a very short amount of time to get used to it eating you. When the goon was done talking to the driver he walked over and politely opened Conrad's door. Another goon surprised John by opening his door and addressing him.

“Sir?” A hand held to the side indicating he should leave the safety of the limo and accept the reality with the sharks.

“Thank you.” John stepped from the limo and tried to look as dignified and powerful as Conrad did.

“They're waiting for us, John.” John was happy to fall in next to Conrad; he was finally starting to get the idea that he did need someone to show him how to navigate this strange society.

They were brought through the lobby to an elevator with military precision and speed that left observers confused and uncomfortable. The goons left them in the elevator alone; a fresh group met them at the top floor and escorted them down the hall to the door of a conference room. Outside the door, a small table was set up with a large glass bowl filled with water.

“If you would, sir?” Said one of the goons he had a heavy accent that John couldn't place.

“Of course.” Conrad stepped forward and placed a hand on the outside of the bowl. John watched him alter the pattern of the water and in a flash it was frozen solid. Conrad stepped aside and looked at John expectantly.

“And you, sir?” Asked the same goon, without approaching the bowel John altered the pattern of the water and the ice should have melted. Something was preventing John from altering it at a distance. “No, sir, we need you to touch the bowl and prove it was you and not someone else.”

John walked up and placed his hand on the bowl and again altered the pattern of the water, this time bringing the water to a boil.

“Thank you, sir.” The goon clearly was unimpressed and had seen it all a million times before. Another goon opened the door to the conference room and let them in. John followed Conrad into the conference room and wondered if a den of hungry lions might be more fun.

Chapter 53

The room had a view of the golf course, the airport, and the green countryside beyond. There was of course a large table in the middle of the room surrounded by twenty or so chairs, each occupied by a well-dressed individual who looked at them with cold eyes. There were alliances and agreements here, but there were no friends. They had left two chairs empty by the door for John and Conrad, their backs would be to the door, and it was clear to John this was to make them uncomfortable. A younger man wearing antique looking sunglasses cleared his throat loudly.

“Now that we are all here we can get started.” He stood up and knocked loudly on the table with his knuckles. “The North American Conclave is now in session. We have each been summoned to deal with the recent events in Chicago; the creation and destruction of a rogue mage and the murder of the regent, who most of us knew as Owen.”

“I want to add to the list!” All eyes turned to Veronica. She was fashionably dressed, though most of the men present found her almost exposed breasts a bit distracting, but the venom in her voice was icy enough that most were able to overlook the distraction. “Owen's student attacked my student, unprovoked, and turned him over to the FBI.” There was a gasp from some and John heard a couple of outright giggles and snickers. “He has violated our most basic laws, and I demand he be killed, and I be given the Chicago territory.” All eyes turned to John.

Conrad leaned close to John and whispered; “Introduce yourself, and tell them what happened. Then shut up and sit down.”

John stood up and looked around the faces at the table and thought about the raw power these people held over reality, the things they could do boggled his mind with the possibility to change the world. Yet they sat here and argued over petty territories they had no real dominion over and did nothing but hide, their meekness made John feel bold as he stood.

“My name is John Carter; I was Owen's student till he was murdered. The rogue mage was my fault, and I fixed it with Owen's help. We did everything we could and were almost killed correcting my mistake. As to Peter, Veronica's student, he was not her student. He couldn't perform magic on his own, and used altered items to create the illusion that he could. He was stalking my girlfriend, and I suspect intended to kill her. I moved to defend her, and he attacked. The FBI was there watching because of Owen's murder, and they captured him after he was wounded.”

“What do you mean he couldn't perform magic? He has passed that door and sat in on past Conclave meetings.” John guessed the woman who pressed him for an answer was in her eighties, but her voice was confident and her eyes sharp.

“He had altered items that had patterns in them that he could activate at will, and it looked like he was a mage....”

'You lying little s**t!” Veronica stood up and slammed her fist on the table. “Peter was my student, he can do magic, how dare you accuse me of this! Where is your proof?”

“Where,” said Conrad calmly;”is your proof that he was a mage? The fact is that the FBI still has him in custody, and my sources say he is alive and well. The last time a mage spent this long in custody he had joined them and was soon after killed. It is at least clear to me that the FBI doesn’t think he is a mage and neither should we. If for no other reason than he has not escaped from the FBI.”

Silence fell across the table and eyes slowly came to settle on Veronica. John sat down.

“Brace yourself she's about to go over the top.” Whispered Conrad.

“Peter was a mage, he was not stalking this fools w***e, and it is possible that John killed Owen over an argument after the rogue was killed....”

“I have it on good authority that the Chicago Police have verified Mr. Carter's alibi.” The man was bald and deeply tanned, his voice heavy and authoritative.

“I don't care what you think...” Veronica was so angry that her face was turning red.

“You had better care what I think, you greedy little girl!” Shouted the bald man. “I've had enough of you. You cheat, lie and manipulate to get your way in even the most minor things, and it is repulsive. I have a copy of the police report, and I have talked directly to the investigator, and there is no proof Owen's student killed him. It looks more like what happened in Florida and Boston.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Ray?” Veronica was in control of herself again, but not much from John saw.

“Not yet.” Ray sat back in his chair and casually scratched his jaw. “As soon as I have proof though, I'm coming after you.”

“Let me know when you get your balls back from your wife, Ray.” Veronica snarled and turned back to John. “In the meantime I challenge him to a duel for the rights to Chicago and as repayment for the loss of my student.” Veronica pointed a very well manicured finger at John.

“John is still just a student, and he wouldn't be able to defend himself.” Conrad stood. “I would move that I be named as regent pro temp to Chicago and be allowed to fight in John’s place.”

There was again gasping, and assorted giggling around the table, but John took note of Veronica's smile as it widened slightly.

The guy in the sunglasses stood and knocked on the table for order and attention. “The law clearly states that this is out of the question, and it makes no allowances for a mage to be able to defend himself in a duel, it is only defined as a test of skill and knowledge.”

“Yes,” Countered Conrad. “But John is still a student and has only rudimentary skills at best. He has not been tested, and he is not a full mage yet.”

“This is true.” Shades paused. “I would put it to a vote then. Conrad may take on John as a student for two months to complete his training; once it is completed he is to face Veronica in a duel. All in favor?”

There were scattered 'aye's' around the table.

“Opposed?”

There was silence.

“It is settled then in two months a place and time of the dual will be arranged and in the mean time John is under Conrad's protection and tutelage. This conclave is concluded.”

“What about Peter?” Veronica was happy with the outcome but still had more on her agenda.

“What about Peter?” Answered the man in sunglasses.

“He's my student, we can't leave him to the FBI. They need to answer to the law.”

“Veronica.” The man's voice softened a tone. “The law is clear that Peter is to be killed before he reveals secrets if he is a student. If he's not a student, then there is nothing we can do, and it will be up to you. Consider it a kindness that I am not tabling the issue.”

John watched Veronica survey the faces around the table. She had friends and allies but not enough, and it was clear that people were willing to inflict any injury they could. John enjoyed watching her confused, helpless, and angry. For a moment, Veronica locked eyes with him, and John wondered how a woman who was so shockingly beautiful could be so cold and ruthless.

“Come along, John. We had best enjoy our small victories while we can.” Conrad led John back to the elevator and once the doors closed he smiled and said; “That could have been a lot worse.”

“How?”

“They could have accepted my bid to fight in your place. That little b***h is scary.” Conrad laughed softly, John was not amused.

Chapter 54

John, Conrad and Eric (Conrad had finally introduced his driver/bodyguard) stood in the warehouse. It was awkward for John because it had also become his hideout, there were boxes with his clothes and things stacked next to a cot that John was using as a bed. John felt like he was squatting and was uncomfortable with it.

“So let’s see what you can do, John.” Conrad leaned on his cane casually.

“Sure thing.” John stepped away from Conrad and Eric, took a deep breath and launched into a display of his magical skills. Fire, ice, lightning, moving objects, augmenting his ability to leap and run. Once John got used to it, he enjoyed it and enjoyed the display of his skills. He finished up and turned to Conrad for approval.

“Is that all?” Conrad was unimpressed.

“No.” John felt like he had just failed his driving test because he ran a stop sign. “I have one more thing I learned, but Owen didn't teach it to me and it's dangerous.”

“Really?” Conrad cocked an eyebrow and looked at Eric who just shrugged. “My dear boy, magic violates all reason and logic, what could make it more dangerous?”

“Just keep a safe distance from it.” John walked to the trash and pulled out a greasy burger wrapper and pressed it into a tight ball of wax paper and day old burger drippings. He used a pattern to give it some weight and threw it across the warehouse. He took a deep breath and focused on finding where the papers pattern repeated and hooked back on it's self. Bracing himself for the explosion, he unhooked the patterns and watched as the surrounding patterns withdrew from the explosion and the sudden creation of dark chaos.

John looked to Conrad for approval and saw horror frozen on his face. Eric was unimpressed with the explosion; apparently he wasn't a mage and couldn't see the twisted patterns. John walked back over to the trash, pulled out an empty soda bottle and threw it into the small patch of madness. It twisted, burst into flames, and briefly turned itself inside out before falling apart. He looked again at Conrad, and the look of horror was replaced by amazed curiosity.

“You figured this out yourself from what you saw?” Conrad gestured at the smoldering metal and glass remains that had once been a plastic bottle.

“Yeah.”

“I've read about something like it. I never thought I'd see it in person. I've never heard about what it did to objects that encountered the.... After effects.” Conrad spoke carefully and slowly.

“What was it used for?”

“The book I found it in described using it as part of the defenses for a fortress or as a trap.” Conrad paused and in the fleeting silence John could only imagine the horrible things that would happen to a person who stepped into broken patterns. “The writer pointed out that it was horrific, and few mages had the stomach or lack of morality to use it. I've often thought that this was why the knowledge was lost.”

“Perhaps this all should be lost.” John was shocked to hear Eric say something so opposed to the interests of his employer. “I don't see it bringing about world peace or feeding the poor. Magic just makes screwed up people into screwed up people with power.”

“You are right in many ways, Eric.” Conrad shuffled over to the cot and sat down. “It has done little good for the world and I doubt it ever will, but I can't stand ideally by while people like Veronica amass power. If nothing else, we must save the world from our own evils until this knowledge is finally lost.”

“Can't we be discreet? Make it rain during a drought....”

“Stop an earthquake from killing thousands.” Conrad interrupted John and carried the idea. “Undo global warming, disable nuclear weapons, heal the sick and feed the poor. We have limits with the knowledge that is left to us and we have our own human limitations. We must also contend with the reactions of our fellow humans. As you are painfully aware, not everyone has forgotten that mages and magic are real. The FBI was quick to catch up with you, in hopes of recruiting you, and they are not the only ones. They would see our interventions as part of some agenda, even if there wasn't one. Then there is the average everyday person. They seldom take responsibility for their own lives and progress unless they learn the lesson through pain. If we save them from themselves what are we really doing?”

“If we let them die then what good does that do?” John had thought Conrad and Owen dreamed of better than this, of doing good for the world.

“How many people do you think starved to death while we've been talking? How many murders and rapes have occurred? You couldn't be in all those places at once, even with the most powerful spells we have limits. So how do you choose who lives and who dies? Do you have the right to choose and how far are you going to go with your responsible use of power? Will you prevent tyrants from coming to power and will you impose your ideas of right and wrong on others who disagree with you?” John withered under Conrad's harsh gaze.

“I..” John stammered.

“You have ideals and want to change things for the better. You are a good person, but there are no easy moral choices here and it is only made more difficult because no one can hold us accountable unless we let them.” Conrad stood up slowly. “When was the last time you were in a fist fight boy?”

“When I tackled Peter.”

“That doesn’t count, you were using magic.”

“Not since junior high then, I won though.”

Eric chuckled to himself and walked towards the door.

“Here.” Conrad handed John a business card. “Ask for Lopez and tell him I sent you. He'll help you get into shape and teach you a few tricks that might keep you alive. Consider it my Christmas gift.”

“Christmas?”

“Yes, Christmas, haven’t you been paying attention?”

Chapter 55

It was strange. The holidays had never meant much to John but an inconvenience of shopping, the quest for that perfect gift for someone. He and his father had always kept Christmas simple, gag gifts, and a small meal they fixed together. It provided a sense of togetherness and family without being suffocating and was a sharp contrast to Barb’s family. Not that they lacked intimacy or togetherness. The meals were extravagant and took all day to prepare, often involving rotating shifts. The process of giving gifts was turned into an elaborate game of stealing and trading that often involved alliances and deal making worthy of terrible reality shows, but there was always laughter and abundant humor. It was fun but alien to John.

Here in the warehouse by himself he missed it all. He was starting to see how people struggled with solitude and isolation. That it could be a terror to be forever alone, with nothing but your own momentary voice against the eternal voice of silence. He had brief fantasies of wandering around the city till he found some small corner of cheer that he could enjoy with other people. They were brief and collapsed under the weight of his fears and doubts.

There were more than just his fears and self-doubts out there. Somewhere the FBI was quietly and persistently pursuing their agenda of “truth, justice and the American way” by their standards and no else’s. There was a woman who wanted John dead, revenge for her captured boyfriend. What was she doing for Christmas? Plotting his death carefully sharpened candy canes no doubt, try as he might he could not imagine Veronica surrounded by a warm and loving family. Owen had told him that she might have killed her father, hadn’t he? If not he had implied it.

What kind of woman turns and kills here own father? John let the thought tumble through his mind and realized he was asking the wrong question. What makes a woman kill her own father for profit? That idea had motion. What had her father done to her? Was he the first or was he killed after some event? Questions just breed new questions and John knew he would never honestly know.

John understood her anger at him; he had pushed back and taunted, given her the opportunity to move against him. But he could not understand any part of her that was not anger and hatred. He found himself unable to imagine her laughing at something funny or expressing joy. Was that his shortcoming, an inability to imagine his enemy as a complete person? While the rest of the city celebrated, John spent a cruel night with self exploration and doubt.

Chapter 56

The gym that Conrad sent him to was not in a part of Chicago that John had ever been to, but had heard about on the news often enough. He got off the Green line at Ashland and was shocked by the mixed realities around him. Even at this early hour of the morning there were a few prostitutes leaning against the wall of a burger joint that proudly declared that it accepted food stamps in neon letters. Their pimp across the street eyed John with obvious distaste as several BMW's edged through the tension. John tried to feel safe and secure in the fact of his growing magical prowess, but he was painfully aware of the fact that Owen had been a far better mage than he would ever be, and he was killed with simple hand gun.

As John walked away from the L, he saw new condos standing next to boarded up warehouses and shady looking clubs. The area was struggling with a changing identity and there was no hiding it. There had been more than a few news reports about muggings on and around Green line stops in this neighborhood, but that wouldn't stop people from buying property and pushing out those who couldn't afford the new improvements and raised rent. Those people weren't the less desirable element; they were just too poor to move away from the crime. John thought back to his debate with Conrad, and was angered by his inability to see a way that he could directly change things. Time and time again he was confronted by the very real limits of magic and what had once become a bright and incorruptible hope had become dingy and damaged, like so many parts of Chicago.

The address he was looking for was a couple of blocks away, and had he not known better, he would have thought the graffiti covered and boarded up store front only concealed another abandoned building. The door opened easily though, and he was immediately greeted with music that had a driving tempo and Spanish lyrics. At the top of the stairs, a very attractive woman with a heavy Mexican accent asked him whom he was looking for and smiled when he explained. She was dressed as if she were about to get in the boxing ring herself, shorts and a tight fitting top under a sleeveless t-shirt. She navigated the large gym filled with men lifting weights and sparring with a silent confidence that suggested she wasn't just dressing the part. She walked to a corner near a boxing ring where several men were leaning against the ropes watching two men spare. She called out in Spanish that was sharp and clipped, and one of the men stepped away from the match.

“Mr. Lopez?” John extended his hand. “Conrad sent me. He said you'd be willing to train me.”

“Yeah, the old guy called me and told me to get ya in shape. Call me Davy.” He took John’s hand in a crushing grip and smiled brightly in a sharp way. Davy wasn't much taller than John, but he was solidly built and if his grip was indication, very strong. “Lets see what I gotta work with.” His soft accent lent him a friendly air.

“Set up?”

“Yeah, you bring gloves or do you need a pair?”

“Uh, I just brought some shorts and things.”

“The locker room is over there.” Davy pointed to the opposite corner. “When you're ready I'll get you some gloves.”

John went into the small locker room and got changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He felt out of place and intimated but couldn't walk away. He needed this to survive the dual with Veronica, and he kept reminding himself that it was better to embarrass himself now than die later.

Once he was ready he left the locker room and found Davy waiting for him with tape and gloves. They walked to an empty ring and Davy started taping up John’s hands without ceremony.

“You ever box before?”

“No.”

“Martial Arts?”

“No.”

“Hell, have ever seen a kung fu movie?” Davy grinned, and John couldn't help but chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“Now don't worry we're gonna go easy on ya since it's your first time. I just gotta know what you got.” Davy pulled the laces on the gloves tight. “How's that?”

“Good, I guess.” John felt silly and slightly trapped with the tape and the boxing gloves on his hands.

“Step into the ring then, man.” Davy lifted the rope for John, and he ducked under and stepped onto the canvas mat of the ring and came face to face with the young woman who had lead him to Davy. She was wearing gloves and protective head gear with a look about her that told him she was going to enjoy kicking his a*s. John started to complain, but Davy was pulling headgear onto John’s head. “Keep your hands up and block as best you can and no matter what you do, don't just stand still.”

“But...”

“Yeah, here's a bit for ya.” Davy ripped open a package and pushed a mouth guard into John’s face, the plastic tasted cruel and antiseptic. And like that John was alone in the ring with a beautiful woman who had every intention of kicking his a*s.

Let’s be honest more than a few gentlemen have said “I'll never hit a woman” and just as many men have uttered vulgarities as they slapped a woman. It is an interesting fact of life that the vast majority of women have no reservations about hitting men, or even landing a well placed kick to the family jewels. This is not to say that women have an undercurrent of violent feelings towards men, but it is not to deny it either. Let's look at facts though and accept that every woman knows one or two men that they feel need a solid a*s kicking and just as many women that would love to provide it to those men. Elena, who stood in the ring facing John, knew more than her fair share of men in need of an a*s kicking, most of them were there in the gym. She had also been inaccurately told that John had commented on her a*s and what he wanted to do with it on Saturday night. This quickly added John to her a*s kicking list.

The bell rang, and Elena came at John like a tigress.

John tried, he really did, but he had no idea what he was doing. Every punch landed like a stone, and he couldn't help but stumble backwards till he was against the ropes. He raised his head, determined to see where she was so he could at least take a swing and preserve his dignity. He shouldn't have. Elena saw her opening and landed a picture perfect left hook on his jaw and as far as John was concerned the lights went out.

He awoke to someone slapping him not so gently, and he heard a voice repeating; “Yo, Johnny-boy? You dead or not?” There was laughter in the background, and he could hear an undercurrent of music. He wanted to retreat back into the happy nothing of darkness and not face the humiliation that he had just been put through, but Davy slapped his face again.

“He's alive!” Davy laughed in a way that was good natured as he helped John to a stool in the corner of the ring. “Yo, Johnny-boy, you suck at boxing!” There was laughter in the background.

Elena charged into his field of vision, her hair wild, and teeth bared. “Don't you ever talk about me that way again.” She switched to Spanish and insults splashed over John as she was half dragged away by a couple of guys twice her size trying not to laugh.

“What the f**k? I never said...”

“Don't worry about it man. Some of the guys were just having some fun.”

“Fun? I just got my a*s kicked by some really hot pissed off chick. That was not fun.”

“Yeah.” Davy laughed gently. “Yeah, it was.”

John groaned and tried to figure out how to get out of the gloves.

“Yo, you suck at this bro.” Davy started unlacing one of the gloves. “Conrad said you were in some trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“I have another hot chick that wants to kick my a*s.”

Davy chuckled. “We got a lot of work to do then. Like every day, all morning. Look at the bright side though, Conrad already paid your membership and everything.”

John did not feel better.

Chapter 57

School had fallen by the wayside, and it upset John. At first he thought it was just because that was the one place he could see Radha without looking like he was stalking her, but there was more. He missed the stimulation and the feeling that he was making progress with something that was real and that the rest of the world could know about. Not like magic, where he had to hide and puzzle through a dangerous world of knowledge by himself with little or no guidance.

The boxing lessons were going to help him stay alive if the duel turned physical, which Conrad had told him they often do. In the afternoons, he hid out in the warehouse with The Book and slowly deciphered what he could.

His last encounter with it had left him with the ability to read they cryptic symbols etched into the metal plates. The meanings were also hidden in the patterns attached to them so only a mage who had been exposed to the final troubling message could read them. John knew he couldn't ignore that message or the story of Moloch forever, but he had to survive first. That meant making sense of the book and the knowledge it contained so that he had something to use, but it was never easy.

The Book literally contained thousands of pages. The key turned and opened new pages every time it was pushed a bit deeper, like a screw slowly turning it sank into the tiny space of the books pattern. There was a history of mages, but no explanation where magic came from or how it worked, but one line troubled him; “We are slaves freed to suffering and to be hunted by those we protect.” Was this more of the Moloch story, the message to protect against what he found, or something more?

There were also vast chapters on theory that John had a hard time following. They spoke in allegories that he didn't understand and had no frame of reference for, they were written from the standpoint of a society that had long ago vanished. The few bits he did grasp did nothing to expand what he knew or help him.

The last half of The Book was a collection of spells and the complicated explanations of them. The patterns were not themselves complicated at first, but they grew. There was a simple one on how to freeze water to ice in a flash and John had learned it from Owen, but it could be adjusted to get colder. So cold that it could condense vapor to liquid out the air, but the colder it got the more complex the pattern got. Once the pattern was released things started returning to normal so the ice would melt, and liquids evaporate again, unless another pattern was attached to keep them from warming again. This all had to be done in a specific way so to prevent explosions or broken patterns. The writer of The Book had been terrified of broken patterns, and the description matched exactly what John had discovered by accident. It amused him and at the same time terrified him because the writer indicated that once a pattern was broken that the chaos it created never really vanished.

Was there anything that hasn't come back and haunt him at some point?

In the evening, he shadow boxed in the warehouse. Tying in the patterns he had learned and experimenting with tricks and moves that he thought might keep him alive. There was a background thought, an undercurrent to all that he did that kept him from submitting to the fear. It was like music from another room, he couldn't understand the words and heard only enough to tap his foot and keep time, but that was enough. He had not given up on Radha yet and as irrational as it seemed, he felt he still had a chance.

Chapter 58

He sat in the back of the sandwich shop across from Truman College; he wasn't wearing a disguise or dark sunglasses. There was no point. An FBI agent was parked across the street pretending to be playing with his cell phone while his partner was off running an “errand” in case John tried to evade them on foot. John had run through a number of emotions with them tailing him over the past couple of weeks, annoyance and amusement had faded to steady irritation. He turned his attention back to the school and the small courtyard filling with students. Radha walked out the front door with a small group of her friends. Again and again he saw her and he was left feeling incomplete and empty without her. Was he turning into a stalker or just being sad and pathetic? Maybe he should ask one of the agents what they thought.

The pattern of one of Radha's friends had changed, and it took John a moment to realize she was pregnant. He doubted that she knew because she was holding a lighter to a cigarette. Radha looked disgusted and moved away from the small group, smiling and waving to them. She was walking towards the sandwich shop. Somehow John wasn't surprised and couldn't even bring himself to think of a lie to tell her.

Radha came in, and either didn't see him or was better at pretending not to than John could have been. She ordered, paid, and waited for her sandwich. John tried to finish his own half-eaten sub and felt awkward looking out the window. At least he saw her reflection as she got her sandwich and walked up to him.

“So are you stalking me now?” Her dark eyes were cool, but he heard anger in her voice.

“No.”

“I suppose it would be hard to do while you were being followed.” She sat down across from him but made no move towards her sandwich. “John...”

“Can I try to explain?”

“No. I like you. I think you are nice enough, but I don't want to be involved with anything illegal.”

“I'm not a criminal.” John felt hurt and tried not to get defensive.

“Can you tell me what is going on?”

“No, not yet...”

“Are you in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be able to protect me?”

“I already have.” John’s words shocked her and visibly set her back. “The day you broke up with me. Not more than five minutes later.”

“Someone was going to hurt me? Because we were dating?”

“Yes.” John had been proud of protecting her and now felt ashamed that he dragged her into it in the first place.

“Am I in danger now?”

“No. Things are complicated, but you're safe. I have to... face someone in a few weeks; or so and then it will be over.” John tried to hide the dread in his voice.

“Who do you have to face?”

“The woman who had Owen killed and tried to have you killed.”

“Don't tell me this isn't illegal because it sounds like you are dealing with mobsters.” Her tone turned sharp, and she moved to stand.

“Radha, I'm not a criminal! I'm just... It's complicated.”

“I'm sure it is, John.” She stood up and walked away.

John looked at his half-eaten sub for a moment before swearing under his breath. He stood up, threw away what was left of his lunch and headed for the door. Walking up the steps of the Wilson L stop he couldn't help but notice how badly the agent following him stood out. Was that part of the plan? To show that he was under surveillance so no one would take a shot at him before the dual? Were they actually looking out for him, in their own screwed up way?

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number off the card in his wallet. She answered on the third ring.

“Hello, John. Have you changed your mind yet?” Of course, Agent Harris knew it was him calling.

“No.”

“You know Veronica has won three duels that we know of.” Her tone was matter of fact. “We never find a body though, nothing to bury, your mages clean everything up for her. Do I have to say that makes them accomplices to murder?”

“Are you married?”

“Not any of your concern.”

“Like hell. Are you married?”

“You trying to say something?” There was an edge to her voice that John had not heard before.

“Yeah.” John looked down on to the cars passing under the L. “You get in my life and crawl around, questioning and intimidating people I care about, and think that you have every right to get away with it because you are the FB-f*****g-I.” A guy standing next to John caught the last bit, looked at him, and walked away quickly. “You think that because you follow a set of rules and someone gave you a badge that everyone else should follow those rules and be afraid of you.”

“You should be careful, John. You might need us someday.”

“No. You need me today. Otherwise, why all the heavy-handed scare tactics? Why scare my girlfriend....”

“We don't need you. There is nothing special about you. There are others….”

“Yeah, you keep saying that, but I think you set your sights on me because I'm in a hard place and you can offer me protection.”

“God knows you need it the way you keep screwing up.”

“F**k you.” John fought down his anger. “When this is over things are gonna change, and you won't like it.” John hit the red button on his phone, and it fell silent. He walked over to the agent following him, looked him in the eye, and said; “F**k you too.”

There was a tense moment where they only stared at each other that was unbroken till a Red line train arrived.

Chapter 59

John had never seen time move so fast. Before it all had started, before Barb had left him, back when he was still blind to it all. Days crawled by. He and Barb would spend weekends lying around their small apartment doing nothing, those seemed to last years. He thought back to when he was kid waiting for his father to come home while the babysitter fixed him dinner; that had been an eternity.

Now it slipped past so fast.

Three days till the dual. Three days and he did not feel at all ready. True, working out in the gym had trimmed him down, and put him in better shape than he ever had been before; it had also removed his fear of getting punched. He had studied as much of the damned Book as he could and found nothing that was truly new in the first few chapters, not that he hadn't skipped ahead, but that proved even more frustrating. The spells were laid out in a specific way and each built upon the other in complexity. He had skipped ahead and tried a teleport spell and sent a cinder block to... Well, it was supposed to be across the room, but he never saw it again. So he kept a slow and steady pace through the book.

Three days to go. John felt like there should have been a red digital countdown on the wall somewhere. Instead, he was stuck with the tribesman watching him practice mixing boxing and magic. It didn't help that he was eating nachos, the smell of them made John think of a Mexican restaurant on Broadway that he loved.

What little remained of his concentration was ruined by a knock at the door. John opened it to find Conrad followed, as always, by Eric. John briefly wondered if he would ever be able to afford goons of his own.

“How are you doing, John?” Conrad seemed excited.

“How am I supposed to be doing?” John walked back into the warehouse and left Eric to close the door behind Conrad.

“Ah, I had heard from my contacts in the FBI that you were developing an attitude with them. Don't think that I'll stand for you trying to tell me off.” Conrad chuckled. “Don't worry; your sparing with the FBI is amusing me and several of the other regents. Mostly Owen's old allies, but that makes them no less important.”

John had nothing to say.

“I don't get it though.” Eric chimed in. “Why push them? They can make your life miserable even as a mage.”

“Because, if I survive this I am going to cut a deal with Agent Harris that her supervisors won't let her turn down.”

“Mages don't live long when they work for governments.” Conrad's mood soured sharply.

“Nope. They are gonna work for us.” John opened a bottle of water and took his time drinking. He liked having a plan and keeping others in the dark. “I am going to explain to them how messy it is to have mages fighting over territory and other bullshit. Then I am going to explain to them that I can convince the other mages here to play nice and get along if they help.”

“Help?”

“Yep. They are going to put the other mages under a microscope and make them squirm till they feel like I do. No one can take on the government and expect to win so I will offer a solution. We form an alliance. No more territory, no more fighting over crumbs, and no more pressure. We organize and start working together.”

“You really want to die don't you?” Eric was not even trying to hide his feelings.

“It has been tried before, John. It almost got Owen and I killed, and I don't think it will work any differently this time.” Conrad tapped the tip of his can on the floor. “These people don't want to change. They cling to the small power they have and won't share it. Nothing divided by nothing is less than nothing to them. The few of us who have actual resources don't want to share with sniveling neophytes.”

“They'll help if the government pressures them.” John paused for drama. “And, if you help.”

“If I help?”

“I can't very well run this. I'm not much more than a student and a problem that people want to go away.”

A long silence fell between the three of them.

“Boss?” Eric looked at Conrad with growing concern. “Conrad?”

“He might be right, Eric.”

“Boss, you told me... Hell, you tell anyone who will listen that unifying the regents and changing things almost got you killed. What's different this time?”

“Time and the idea of a common threat, that I assume won't really be a threat?”

“Right.” John was now into the part of his plan he had not thought out very clearly yet.

“So what are we to do in return for the government leaving us alone?” Eric looked skeptical.

“I hadn't gotten that far.” John admitted.

“You're a genius.” Eric's sarcasm was venomous. “A real artist at suicide.”

“Relax, Eric.” Conrad was slowly walking out into the center of the warehouse.

“Conrad...”

“He's right. The government needs to work for us for a change. Not only do they owe us for what we did in the war, but there is no limit to what we could do for them.” John was happy but shocked that he had won over Conrad so easily. “We wouldn't even have to do anything but hold natural disasters at bay or warn them of ones we couldn't control. How much would a few weeks warning of an earthquake be worth? Or a hurricane that hit but was much weaker than predicted?”

“I thought you couldn't…”

“Not by myself but with a handful of experienced mages things would be easy.” Conrad paused and looked into the middle distance, not seeing the warehouse but old dreams recovered.

“Conrad.” Eric hesitated. “I will follow you and protect you, I've proven my loyalty. Just this once though, I have to protest. This... student is gonna get us killed, and you should walk away.”

“I understand your concern, Eric.” Conrad's voice was soft and he paused before laughing softly. “It may not matter because young John here has to survive his dual anyways. If he gets killed, this won't matter.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” John’s mood was crushed from hopeful to realistic without good odds.

“Sorry, but it’s why we came here in the first place. We got a message from that charming young trollop, and she has set a place, so it is up to you to set the time.”

“Where?”

“She was brazen enough to name a park in the city; she must think she will kill you without much fuss. What was the name, Eric?”

“Winnimac Park.” Eric was consulting his smart phone for the exact details.

“In the middle of the city?” John had expected some deserted location in the countryside. “Well, I guess we have to go with midnight then. No, that might be too early still. How about two in the morning?”

“Damn night owls.” Muttered Eric.

“Then there is the detail of witnesses you want to invite. As your sponsor, I have to be there, but you have to name at least one witness.”

John paused for a moment and smiled.

“You aren't gonna like this one. Neither will she, but that just makes it better. I want Special Agent Harris there.”

“Now you're just being an a*****e!” Eric was shouting despite himself.

“No, planning ahead. If this thing gets crazy and does damage to the park or property...”

“We usually clean up after.” Conrad commented gently.

“Yeah, but she is gonna see firsthand how dangerous mages going at it can be for the general public.” John after all had no one else to name, but he didn't want to admit that to anyone, especially himself.

“You have proven reckless, and I think the FBI has a good idea what could happen.” Conrad said disapprovingly.

“But we...” John started.

“However!” Said Conrad sternly. “It might be best to drive that point home. Knowing you, I'm sure you'll find a way. Shall we inform her?”

“No. I should.”

“Very well, then everything is settled.”

“No, I wanted to make sure...”

“Yes.”

“I can use a gun?”

“It might not do you much good if she sees it coming. But if you must you must.”

Chapter 60

The phone only rang twice before she answered, even though it was eleven o'clock at night.

“This is Agent Harris.”

“I hope I didn't wake you up.”

“Not at all, John. I was just reading your surveillance reports; you're getting boring and predictable.”

“Allow me to change that. I need a witness for the dual.”

“John are you asking me on a date?”

“I'm asking you to show up and witness the duel, perhaps to watch me die.”

“How romantic.”

“It's in three days at Winnimac Park, two in the morning.”

“You know you are going to make a lot of mages mad by inviting me.”

“Don't wear any surveillance devices or bring any cameras.”

“Why are you asking me John?”

“Because if I survive things are going to be different, and you need to understand.”

“What, that you can bend reality at your whim or that you're a kid who doesn’t know the rules?”

“No. You need to see what mages warring across the country will do.”

“That will never happen. Your friends are all afraid of change and losing their traditions; Veronica has been the only one to stir the pot in a hundred years.”

“That may be true, but I know things you don't; and things are about to change.” John hung up.

Veronica was the only one to stir the pot in a hundred years? John contemplated it; she had set all of this in motion because... If the rumors were true; she was looking for a Book so she could teach Peter magic. She and Peter had killed and done who knows what else to get the last bit of knowledge and power left over from a shameful past. What had been their end goal? Walk off into the sunset and live happy quiet lives? John doubted he would ever know the truth, but he doubted it was anything but selfish and self-indulgent.

John walked around the warehouse, and started getting ready to go to bed while he considered his own goals. They were selfish in their own way, he wanted these problems to go away and go back to living a normal life. Or as close to a normal life as he could at this point. He paused, was that possible or even realistic? With a pang of sadness, he realized he had gone too far over the edge without realizing it. What kind of normal life could he live if he couldn't even explain his life to someone he cared about, was he supposed to live a lie the rest of his life and hide?

As he brushed his teeth, John studied his reflection in the small bathroom mirror. He had changed. It wasn't in his appearance, it was in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. He couldn't point to when it had happened; he just knew that it had happened. He wasn't better than he was, he wasn't worse than he was, he was just different. He finished up and went to bed; he didn't think he would fall asleep easily, but he did.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of Radha.

She was dancing in a sensuous slow way in front of large windows overlooking the city lights. She was backlit, so it was a moment or two before John realized she was nude, and it pleased him as much as it embarrassed him. Somehow seeing her like this was a violation, but he wasn't about to stop watching. You, my dear reader may judge the male mind harshly for that, but you also know it to be true either from experience or being honest with yourself.

He could hear faint and distant music, it was more than exotic; it was almost alien. Low piping tones mixed with a mournful violin and an instrument he couldn't identify. Radha knew the music though and abandoned herself to it. Her arms arced, and fingers moved through complicated positions in a quick-quick-slow rhythm. Radha’s hips shifted smoothly, her legs arcing high through the air, feet turning surely under her making her spin so that even her braided hair was part of the dance. Her eyes were closed; her face a mask of serene concentration and every part of her was given to the dance.

John had never seen anything like it. He was aroused, transfixed, and energized all at once. He could do nothing but watch and his previous shame for doing so melted away.

In the distance behind the city, lightning flashed, there was no thunder though, and it flashed again blinding John. When his vision cleared he saw the dance as a mage would.

Her fingers traced interwoven lines of gold and red around dangerous broken patterns. As her arms arced past city lights they traced encompassing circles and spheres, her body positioned the axis and it spun guided by her feet. Inside all this there glittered the flurry of movement and rhythm of the dance and music. With a shock, he realized what he was seeing, and it was amazing in its complexity and simplicity.

In the morning, John awoke with a start; the dream and its pattern firmly planted in his mind, and a smile on his face.

Chapter 61

John had practiced with his new pattern as much as he could. Altered a clip of bullets with the fire pattern from his grandfather’s ring, they would leave trails of fire in the air and start small fires when they hit if he had done everything right. It was one thing to know guns killed; it was another thing to use them and know every time you picked one up you intended to kill. Ever since that night in the salt factory John couldn't watch action movies, couldn't stand the images of lives cut short only to be followed by a well-rehearsed one liner. Life and death had taken on new meaning to him, and he was angry that in order to survive he had to kill.

On the morning before the dual, John felt as ready as he could. Veronica would have something up her sleeve, and that was to be expected. The issue was experience, she had done this before, and John had not. Killing the rouge madman didn't count in his mind because Owen had been there. So as John went about heating his breakfast in a small microwave he was doubtful and frustrated. His last few months had not had many bright spots in them, and he doubted there were too many to come even if lived. He watched the cheese boil out of the folds of his breakfast burrito and decided that it looked disgusting and wasn't going to eat it. He called Davy at the gym to let him know he wasn't going to make it in to get his daily a*s kicking; he bathed, pulled on some clothes, and went in search of real food.

The diner was quiet and it was a contrast to the traffic outside. There is something about having breakfast while everyone rushes past you to work or their daily chores, not a lazy or mocking feeling, but a sense of curiosity. What lives do they live, what secrets do they keep, and what is kept from them? How did they end up where they are and are they happy? These were the things that John contemplated as he sipped his coffee and waited for the waitress.

“Sorry I'm late.” Said the tribesman as he sat down across from John in the booth.

John stared in shocked disbelief.

Not only was the tribesman wearing a very expensive suit and tie, his braids were tied back into an almost respectable ponytail. John sat frozen as the man across from him scanned the menu. John could tell from his pattern that he was not hiding himself, but it was no less of a shock when the waitress asked him if he wanted coffee.

“I suppose you only have that dreadful tea in the yellow packets?” He said with a British accent.

“Sorry, but that's it.” The waitress was young and she found his accent charming.

“Coffee then if you please. Are you ready to order, John?”

“Y-yeah. I'll have a ham and cheese omelet.”

“Pancakes, toast, fruit, or hash browns sweetie.”

“White toast please.” John didn't take his eyes off the man across from him.

“And you?”

“French toast and bacon please.” He smiled at the waitress, and his teeth shined like jewels they were so white. She smiled back at him coyly and left.

“What the hell?” It was all John could manage.

“I thought we might have breakfast together.” John wanted to think of him as the Tribesman still but the shirt and tie were throwing him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'll tell you my name later. If you survive.” The waitress arrived and poured his coffee with a wink; he resumed once she had left. “We think you will survive, especially considering that shiny new trick you've got. It's impressive.”

“Thank you.” John was feeling manipulated again; it was making him angry.

“It's not in the Primer, where did you learn it?”

“Is that what this is about?”

“What breakfast is about?” How they fixed their food so fast confused John, but the waitress skillfully landed the plates with a smile and vanished.

“No, watching me. And why I was the only one who could see you anyway?”

“You weren't meant to, and I did what I could to hide, but there were times when you just saw me. Not sure why.” He picked up the syrup and drowned his French toast in it.

“Nice to know. Why watch me?”

“You have a Primer. That makes you dangerous; we watched you to see if you were going to abuse the power it gave you.”

“You could have tried helping me out from time to time.”

“No. I couldn't. Besides, you did well on your own, even come up with a new trick we haven't seen before. How did you do it?”

“Why do you care?”

The tribesman-stranger-Englishmen studied John harshly before answering. “You don't get it, do you?”

“As everyone is fond of pointing out, no.”

“What do you know about prime numbers?”

John responded with an irritated look as he chewed a mouthful of omelet.

“Numbers divisible only by one and themselves. They start off fairly common and get further apart and are harder and harder to find as they get larger and larger. In some circles, it’s very big news when a new one is found.” The stranger looked as if he had given this lecture a hundred times and was doing word for word from memory. “Patterns are the same way. There are only so many ways they hold together without collapsing. We don't know who put together the ones in the Primer, but with a few exceptions they make up the totality of the working patterns we know.”

“So all that lost knowledge everyone is going on about...”

“Is lost to mages at large unless you have a Primer, and then you know almost as much as there is to be known. The math of the patterns only works so many ways.” The stranger moved his bacon to the small ocean of syrup that his French toast had vanished from.

“So that makes me special, even among mages.” John smiled.

“It also makes you dangerous and a target for everyone else, but you're getting used to that aren't you?”

John forced himself to hold his smile firmly in place for a moment before responding. “You want to know how I came up with that pattern in case I die tonight.”

“Yes.”

“You had better hope I live then.”

“John, be reasonable. These mages represent the rotting corpse of a shameful and dark part of human history. The idea of this duel is brutal and barbaric...”

“Then stop it.”

“That would... expose things we would rather not have in the open just yet. You could join us though; leave and never come back. They would think you ran away and who would blame you? No one would find you with us.”

As the waitress cleared the dishes and refilled their coffee, John considered why he wasn't going to accept. It wasn't a matter of honor to him that he had to fight Veronica. He realized that, on some level, he was living out the formulaic story of a student avenging his teacher, but no one else was going to face Veronica. What else did he have? No family that he knew of. Radha had been clear she didn't want to see him. School had fallen o the wayside. His plans with Conrad were important but was that a burden he really wanted to carry?

John looked out the window and asked; “Where would we go?”

“I can't tell you unless you accept, but you could never come back, you would be hunted.”

“Hunted.” John didn't like the word, especially when he was staring down the receiving end of it. He would be alive, perhaps even happy, but hunted and never to return. He looked out the window at the city as people and cars made their way past his small corner of it.

Hunted.

Never to return.

They were ominous words spoken with drama and theatrics during movie trailers, followed by explosions and death-defying stunts. They were not words that applied to his life. If they were they would be nothing like the movies, they would be moments of quiet terror as he waited to be found. It would be him forever looking over his shoulder wondering who to trust. He had a vision of himself in a crowded bar. Alone despite the thronging humanity around him; afraid amidst the joy and friendship.

“No. I have to stay. If not for Owen, then for myself.”

“Good luck to you then. I hope to talk to you again.” The Stranger got up and pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his dress slacks. “Breakfast is on me.” He carefully placed the bill on the table. The waitress would be thrilled with her tip but disappointed that she didn't get a phone number. John watched him as he walked out the door and down the street. It was shocking to see him not just vanish into thin air. On some level, John realized this moment would mark the point of no return; there was no changing his mind now.

Chapter 62

John had spent the afternoon napping off and on; eventually falling into a deep sleep in the evening, so his alarm clock was a shock to him when he woke up at ten o'clock. He tried not to think about the fact that it was dark, tried not to think about what the night would bring him and the fact that he was going to have to fight for his life. He tried to ignore that he was going to have to kill. You can only ignore so much though, and he felt grim as he bathed and dressed himself. He considered wearing a shirt and tie, but opted for jeans and a t-shirt. He wanted to be relaxed but couldn't with the .45 strapped to his hip.

He didn't even try to eat. He found his last can of warm soda, used a pattern to cool it and drank it slowly as he waited for Conrad and Eric. When they arrived nothing much was said. They got into the limo, and Eric drove them across town. Conrad refrained from drinking.

When they were almost there, John looked at Conrad and decided there was no point in keeping secrets.

“If I lose...”

“You'll do fine.”

“Listen. If I lose, there is a Primer hidden behind the fridge in the warehouse.”

“What?”

“There's a...”

“I get it.” Conrad sat forward in his seat. “Where the hell did you get a Primer?”

“It was my fathers. I opened it, and that's what started this nightmare.”

“Did Owen know?”

“I never told him. I tried...”

“And couldn't.”

“Yeah.”

“The fact that you can talk about it now tells me you figured out how they open to the rest of the pages.”

“Yeah, have you ever seen one?”

“No. Owen and I searched and found fragments...but never a complete one.”

“If she kills me. Go get mine. Don't let it fall into the wrong hands.” John felt overly dramatic saying that.

“I will.”

The limo came to a stop, and they were there.

Chapter 63

Everyone was gathered at the west side of the park under a street light. There were several mages from the conclave that John recognized; one was still wearing his sunglasses. The Tribesman-Englishman was standing behind them, unseen, with a fast food bag that had a smiling hot dog on it. Agent Harris was standing a safe distance from the small group, dressed in her sharpest FBI suit, sipping coffee. As John walked towards them, he saw Veronica approaching from the opposite direction; she was dressed in all white except for a purple scarf. She was carrying a long slightly curved leather sheath; it fell somewhere between too small to be a sword and too big for anything else.

The middle-aged guy with the sunglasses stepped forward and singled for Veronica and John to approach. “I and the other delegates have secured the park; there are no bystanders to hurt. We've done our best to shield the perimeter so most spells won't get through and people won't wander in by accident. Having said that, neither of you may leave the park or it will be seen as surrender, and you will be killed. Other than that, once the duel starts, it is to the death for control of Chicago territory and the territories amassed by Veronica. There are no other rules. Do either of you have anything to say?”

“No.” John tried to sound brave.

“I do.” Veronica could have been flirting in a bar.

“Yes?” Asked Shades as John was starting to think of him.

“Can I piss on his corpse when we're done?”

Shades showed no sign of amusement or disgust with Veronica. “We have marked out your starting points in the park according to the old ways. Once you hear the gunshot you may begin.”

They walked into the park in silence. There were two circles chalked into the grass in the rough middle of the lightly wooded park. They faced each other in the gloom of the city lights. There were shadows, but nothing too dark and nothing deep enough to hide in. The baseball diamond and tennis courts seemed like something left behind and forgotten in the gloom. John made a mental note of their locations; he could use a pattern on the fence and make the wire razor sharp.

John counted four breaths before the gun sounded.

In a flash, Veronica had her blade out and rushed John. The only thing that stopped her from hacking his head off on her first swing was his ability to read the pattern as she cast it. He jumped backwards, and she pushed her attack. She didn't swing wildly; she moved with practiced skill making strikes and lunges that were accelerated by magic. Even though John saw them coming, they were hard to dodge, and she didn't give John a chance to get his gun out or focus on a pattern. It was the boxing ring all over again, and he was quickly getting pushed backwards.

When Veronica pulled back from a lunge she left herself open, and John moved in close to her without the aid of magic and started throwing punches at her mid-section. He was pleased when he felt his fists connect with her ribs. Veronica swore loudly and pulled her arms into herself defensively and spun, John had to jump back to dodge the gleaming blade. He landed badly and stumbled; Veronica leaped in with a blow meant to take John's head. John let himself fall away from the blade and out of reflex brought up his left arm to block the attack. He survived, but her blade slide through his arms flesh and dragged its tip down the bone for several inches. Somehow the blinding pain gave John the clarity to make a pattern. He hit her square in the chest with enough raw force to throw her back past her starting circle. He had to give her credit that she landed on her feet, even though she did it shakily. It gave John a chance to regain his footing and draw his pistol.

This, my dear readers, is where we joined this story already in progress.

She was far enough away that John was able to get a shot off as she ran at him. He missed by a mile, but the pattern on the bullet worked. It worked far too well. What was supposed to be a trail of fire was a geyser of flame that chased the bullet down range like a meteor. It crossed Veronica's path and forced her to pause either from shock or fear of being scorched. When the bullet hit a tree at the edge of the park it exploded into burning splinters that arced out gently into the air. John did not have time to contemplate what he had done wrong to overpower the bullets because Veronica was coming at him again.

This time she had leaped into the air and was coming at him like something out of a bad ninja anime. She had sped herself up, so she was falling faster, but John had time to move under her with the help of a pattern, so he was behind her when she landed. She was close enough that John was able to get a better bead on her and fired twice. The combined explosions were huge, and John was close enough that he felt the heat wash over him. Yet running out of the flames came Veronica. Her white clothes weren't even dusty. John used a pattern of his own to jump straight up forty feet and avoided her attack, two could play this anime game. As he fell, he fired two more times. The first shot was too far behind her, but the second one exploded close enough that it threw her to the side like a broken toy.

John landed well but took no joy in it. Veronica was getting up off the ground, and he could see small spatters of blood and dirt ruining her perfect white outfit. He raised his gun, and she pointed at him with an empty hand. John watched the pattern form and threw together a shield to protect himself. Electricity arced from her fingertips and blasted a scorched path between the two of them. John’s shield held, and he could smell the ozone as the air crackled.

Veronica smiled when she saw he was still standing. John responded by superheating the air around her as fast as he could, she jumped clear as the air burst into flame with a flash and a dull roar. She had not escaped totally unscathed, her hair was burnt in places and her scarf was burning at one end. She ignored it and tried to freeze John’s feet to the ground. He dodged easily enough by jumping again.

John was getting tired; he had also lost a lot of blood. With a severely wounded arm, he wouldn't stand a chance if she got in close again, and she was sure to try that again soon. So it was time to try something different while he still had a chance.

When he landed, John threw a fireball at her that was big enough to wipe out a large building. She shielded herself and started to advance. John took careful aim and fired a single shot at her. She shielded herself from the bullet and the explosion; she was running now, thinking he was running out of tricks. John concentrated and fired at the same time he cast the pattern he had learned in his dreams. He sent it at Veronica on the bullet that was suddenly just a bullet.

The pattern negated the magic he had imprinted on the bullet and rode it all the way to Veronica where it canceled the shield she created. The bullet hit her slightly off center in the chest and spun her violently. John waited, but she didn't get up, and he was out of ammo.

John walked slowly to where she had fallen, his wounded arm hanging limply at his side. Even covered in blood, sweat, and mud she was pretty. He felt bad for her, but not stupid; he kicked her knife out of arm’s reach. He could tell by her pattern that she was dying; it would only be few more heartbeats.

He sat down next her. She gasped and gurgled, choking on the blood flooding her lungs. She tried to get up, but didn't have the strength. She locked eyes with him, her blue eyes were wide and she blinked rapidly before looking away. John could not tell if it was hatred or desperation that he saw there. He only knew that he felt regret. She coughed up more blood and her eyes clenched shut in agony.

John wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. Nor was there much time to say it. Veronica fought death to the last, but it came quickly for her without shame or dignity.

Chapter 64

Quickly enough the others came into the park and stood around for a moment saying nothing. They kept their own thoughts silent and tried to add dignity to the raw and cruel thing they had sanctioned that night. It was Eric that moved forward and looked at John’s wounds, declaring he would need medical help. Agent Harris said she would handle it and walked a short distance away as she dialed her cell phone. The other mages did their best to repair the park, but there was no growing the grass or tree overnight. The children in the morning would wonder about the bare spots on the ground and the missing tree, but nothing would come of it.

Eric and Conrad helped John to the parking lot where an unmarked van soon arrived. The doors opened, and two people in medical scrubs got out and started tending to John. They insisted he needed surgery; Conrad told them if they tried to take John anywhere he would melt the van with them inside it. Agent Harris told them to do what they could and do it fast. They gave John a shot for the pain and soon everything was lost in a hazy fog.

He awoke with a headache looking at the ceiling of a hotel room. He sat up slowly and found his left arm in a sling.

“How do you feel?” Eric was in an uncomfortable looking chair, set in one corner, with an e-reader in his hand.

“Ugh.” Was all John could manage. “How long was I out?”

“Not as long as you would think an hour or two. Whoever your FBI girlfriend called knew what they were doing when they patched you up.” Eric got up and walked over to John, checking his bandages. “I could've kept you alive, but they saved your arm.”

“You're a nurse?” John's shirt hung off him in rags, and he was very aware that he smelled of sweat, blood, and a strange hospital odor. In short he smelled bad and knew it.

“No, I was a combat medic.”

“I had no idea. Can you take me back to the warehouse? I need a shower and sleep.”

“You're staying here now that it's over, no point in hiding anymore. Conrad said he would cover the cost as long as you need.”

“Oh.” John didn't know what to say; he was still foggy from the drugs.

“The boss and your girlfriend are in the next room, they want to talk to you before she leaves.”

“Radha is here?” John realized how ridiculous that sounded as he said it.

“Who?”

“Never mind. You mean Agent Harris, right?”

“Yeah.” Eric stifled a laugh as he walked towards the door and announced that John was awake. Conrad walked in with a smile from ear to ear and was followed by the ever chilly Agent Harris.

“You look well, all things considered, John! Or should I address you as Regent now?” Conrad chuckled. Agent Harris stood just inside the door, the smile on her face was unconvincing.

“No. Never call me that.” John wanted to sleep and ignore everything.

“How about killer?” Asked Agent Harris with enough ice in her voice to sink a passenger liner on the high seas.

“How about f**k you?” John heard himself say it before he even finished the thought.

“I could charge you with murder and drag you to jail...”

“And if you haven't gotten the point there is not a cell that can hold me or any mage. You know that though and want to play your last screw-with-John card before it expires, don't you? Yeah, I killed her. And, no, I don't feel good about it. You should be asking yourself though what it means for you.” John paused to gather his thoughts through the haze that clung to him. He didn't want to screw this up.

“What does it mean for me?” The defiance and challenge in her voice dared John to say anything so she could trump it.

“It means that from now on you work for me. The FBI works for me. Or this is gonna happen all over the country, and people are gonna notice it.”

“Work for you? What you kill one girl, and you think you're a king?”

“No. I think you'll like it because I am going to give you names of mages to pressure; however you want. Until, they do as I say.”

“As you just pointed out no cell can hold you. How do we a pressure mages...”

“Al Capone was brought down by the IRS.” Conrad pointed out with a smile. “Hit them where it would hurt anyone: their bank accounts.”

“Even if we could make that happen, what would we get out of it?”

“Information. How much would it help to know when there was going to be a natural disaster? How many lives could you save by predicting earthquakes? We won't face other governments or mages, but we can help with some major issues that make any effort on your part seem small.” Conrad explained it better than John could in his current state.

“Even if I wanted to I couldn't.”

“No.” The haze was fading from the corners of his mind. “You don't have the authority to approve anything so radical and extreme. We just want you to pass the message along to those who do.”

“Eric, could you show Mrs. Harris out now?” Conrad was as polite as a viper with all the cards.

“With pleasure, sir.”

Conrad waited for several seconds after they heard the door close before speaking to John. “Well, we shall soon see what comes of that. In the meantime, rest up. Things are quiet now, but who knows how long they will stay that way. If you need us, Eric and I are in the suite across the hall.” Conrad left John alone in the room. John lay down with no intent of sleeping, but the drugs were still working their way through his system and in moments he was snoring.

Chapter 65

John woke up laying on something rock-hard with a sandy grit to it and sweating. He sat up and tried to figure out if he was dreaming again. There was a small fire blazing a few feet away. He was lying on some sort of rock outcropping that overlooked harsh terrain dimly lit by the moon and stars. There was not a single artificial light to be seen. His arm ached, so he knew he wasn't dreaming and he had an idea who had brought him here.

“Are you going to tell me your name this time? Or are we gonna play the secrets game till we get bored with it.”

“No, the secrets are over.” The stranger/tribesman walked towards the fire out of the gloom and with an arm-full of small sticks and branches that he piled near the fire. He was back to his ragged cutoffs and spear. “My name is Augustus, most people just call me Augie though. We're in the Australian outback to answer the next obvious question.”

“What do you want?” John looked around again and wondered what his odds were of finding his way home without help.

“As I said, I want to know how you came up with that pattern.”

“And?”

“I want your Primer.”

“I came up with it in a dream.” John smiled knowing that it would sound like a lie. “And, you can't have the Primer. I'm not done with it yet.”

“You're limiting my options on what to do with you.”

“Is that another threat?”

“No, just a fact.” Augustus sat down and leaned against a rock. “You know I used to be a banker, lived in London, and had a wife and everything. Then my uncle died and left me a wooden puzzle box with his estate. I've always loved puzzles, and this one was a challenge, took me weeks to open it. Guess what was inside.”

“A Primer, and a key.”

“Yep. Screwed my life up proper. I started seeing things and crazy things started happening around me. I never found a teacher, so control was hard to learn. Before I learned it though, my wife left, and I lost my job. I was losing it. I decided that it would be better to die than face a lifetime of madness. I packed the Primer and key back into the puzzle box and took it with me when I left. I had visions of throwing myself of the cliffs of Dover. Real dramatic and foolish.” He sighed. “I got there, and there was a group of people waiting for me. They all had Primers and offered to teach me. So I left with them. No one ever found my body, but my suicide note convinced everyone I was dead, so it was easy to vanish.”

“I don't want to vanish.”

“I know.”

“I assume that one of the remaining options is to kill me.”

“Yeah, you keep proving to be unpredictable and troublesome. A combination no one likes.” Augustus threw a few branches into the fire.

“Then teach me. I don't need the constant attention I've been attracting, but you have to admit I was kinda screwed.”

“Some of us agree with that; it's what kept you alive. We are still worried about what you are going to do next.”

“I want to try and get Radha back one more time. After that... I want to live as quiet as possible and be ignored by the world. Finish school at least.”

Augustus laughed gently. “What is with you and that girl? She was pretty clear on never seeing you again.”

“I know.” John sat down on the hard stone and felt defeated. “So teach me, show me how this all works. But you can't have my Primer.”

“You can't use it to help anyone else see.”

“Why would I?”

“We are not going to be as easy on you as Owen was. A lot of what we have to teach has nothing to do with patterns and magic.”

“I'm good with that.”

“All right then. I haven't had a student in a long time, I could use the challenge.”

“When do we start?”

“I'll be in touch.”

John watched a pattern wrap itself around him and felt dizzy briefly. As he watched the fire and Augustus shrank from view and his hotel room zoomed in around him.

“I have got to learn that trick.” John chuckled as he walked to the bathroom to bathe.

Epilogue

John’s arm was still in the sling, Eric had told him to wear it for at least another couple of weeks. He was going to have a nasty scar running almost the length of his upper arm, but he was alive. He was anxious and tried not to fidget in his seat as he waited. The coffee shop was almost empty, and that would make things easier for John, but she was late and even though he knew she was always late it made him nervous. He wondered if she was going to show or not and tried not to stare at the door. She did show though, and it did nothing to ease his anxiety. She didn't buy tea or anything; she just sat down across from at the corner table he had chosen.

“John, I don't want you stalking me and being creepy.” Radha was as pretty as ever, and for a moment John was speechless.

“I'm going to leave you alone after this. I just wanted to explain everything.”

“Like how your arm ended up in a sling? What? You got shot?” Her gaze was icy, and John couldn't stand the idea that she thought he was some sort of low-life criminal.

“No, I got cut badly while I was defending myself.”

“John...”

“Radha, its crazy, and you won't believe me, but I've been fighting to stay alive against a power-crazed mage. I learned magic by accident and got sucked into this whole nightmare that almost killed me. The only good thing that came out of it was that I met you, and you're the most amazing woman I've ever known. I don't want you to walk away and think I'm a criminal or crazy, I want you to know the truth and that I would do anything to protect you.” John stopped and knew he sounded crazy, Radha agreed without saying a word by getting up to leave. “I can prove it! Please give me a chance,”

“John...” Her voice was full of sympathy and fear, but she hesitated then sat down again. “Fine, prove it.”

John looked around to make sure there was no one watching, used a simple pattern to very quietly fry the camera behind the counter. Using his body to shield his hand from the rest of the coffee shop he brought a flame to life in his palm. Radha gasped.

“It's a trick...”

“Wait.”

John gently tugged the pattern altering its outline and shape. The flame obeyed, changed shape and, got larger. He sculpted as he had practiced and hoped that she wasn't too terrified. After a few adjustments and a quick clean-up of the pattern, the flame grew to about the size of a tennis ball and changed shape to a perfect smiling copy of Radha's face. It only flickered at the edges and produced almost no heat. It was John’s best effort to date.

Radha gasped and stared at John in shock, glancing back at the flame sculpture several times before seeming to breathe again. “Is it real fire?”

“Yeah, but I'm keeping it from giving off too much heat.”

“John... How?”

“It's a very long story.”

“You really were protecting me?”

“Yes.” John closed his hand and the flame vanished.

“I'm sorry I was so mean...”

“You had no idea, and I couldn't tell you till now.”

“So tell me.” She smiled, and John’s heart melted. “Start at the beginning and don't hold back on the details.”

“It started when my father died....”

The End.

Author's Note

I'm sorry about the blocks of text, I'm fighting with the formatting when I copy and paste.

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Stats

226 Views
Added on January 15, 2014
Last Updated on January 15, 2014
Tags: magic, fiction, fantasy, contemporary fantasy, inherited magic, andrew gordinier

Author

Andrew Gordinier

Chicago, IL

About

I am a writer in the making. I have penned short stories and madness my whole life. Now I'm looking to get feed back and make a name for myself. https://www.facebook.com/andrew.gordinier.3 more..