James Swain - Dark Magic

“Oh, my God, Peter. Oh, my God.”

“I know. Now go stay with your aunt.”

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“I have to warn the others.”

“You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Come to my aunt’s, and hide with us.”

Hiding was the last thing on his mind. “I need to go,” he said.

“I love you, Peter. I always have.”

The words struck him like a thunderbolt. “You do?”

“Yes. Ever since I was little, and you did magic tricks for me. I’m sorry to be telling you this now, but I just have to.”

He stared out the rain-soaked window at the street. Babysitting Holly while practicing his magic were some of the fondest memories he had, and now seemed like another lifetime.

“You’re not mad, are you?” she asked.

“Happy,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“That’s so wonderful. I’ll talk to you later.”

He folded his phone, his heart doing a strange flip-flop inside his chest. The driver tapped his meter. They had just crossed 14th Street, and the fare was over twenty dollars.

“Gimme a hint,” the driver said.

Madame Marie’s fortune-telling parlor wasn’t far, and he decided to go there, and alert her. He gave the driver the cross streets and soon they were heading west.

Peter shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat, trying to make sense of it all.

He opened his eyes to the sight of an ambulance and a police cruiser parked in front of Madame Marie’s parlor. The cruiser’s bubble cast a sickly red glow over the scene.

He was too late.

He paid the driver and got out. On the sidewalk were a gathering of spectators and a uniformed cop talking into a walkie-talkie. Two grim-faced medics wheeled a body draped in white sheets through the front door of the parlor. Peter felt a dagger pierce his heart.

“What happened?” he asked a woman in the crowd.

“An old fortune-teller and her husband were murdered late last night.”

“How?”

“Strangled and shot. I tell you, the neighborhood’s falling apart.”

He fought back the tears. Madame Marie had taught him how to the read the Tarot cards when he was a little boy. He’d sat on a phone book in the back room of her parlor, and learned what the cards stood for in the spirit world. A giving teacher, she’d never once reprimanded him when he got one wrong. And now she was gone.

A second body followed, and was loaded into the ambulance with the first. Marie and her husband were inseparable, and it was fitting they left this world together. The back of the ambulance was closed, and it drove down the block with its bubble still flashing.

The spectators dispersed, leaving Peter and the cop.

“They were my friends. Can you tell me what happened?” Peter asked.

“Looks like a murder-suicide,” the cop explained. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You don’t think someone murdered them?”

The cop gave him a funny look. “Can’t say that I do.”

Peter saw movement inside the fortune-telling parlor. A group of old friends had gathered inside to pay their last respects.

“What are you looking at?” the cop said.

“Nothing,” Peter replied.

“You can’t go in there, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d suggest you move along.”

“I’ll do that.”

The cop’s walkie-talkie came to life, and he stepped away to take the call. Peter went straight to the parlor’s front door. He broke yellow crime scene tape, and stuck his head in.

It looked like a wake. All of Madame Marie’s spirit-world acquaintances were crammed into the small space. There was the ridiculous-acting Fool; the Hermit in his threadbare clothes; the always-aloof High Priestess and High Priest in their flowing robes; the Lovers, whose bodies were forever entwined; the Hanged Man with his grotesquely twisted neck and bubble eyes; and the other spirits who made up the major arcana of the Tarot cards that Madame Marie used to peer into the future. These spirits had inhabited the earth since the beginning of time, and were the archetypes of human existence, embedded in the collective unconscious of every human being. They represented life, death, and everything that fell in between.

Their mournful wails filled the parlor. Peter knew of nothing sadder than hearing the spirits cry. He wanted to comfort them, but the words had not been invented to make their pain go away. The Fool shuffled over.

“How’s tricks?” the Fool said with a raspy voice.

“Hello, Fool,” Peter replied.

“This is a sad day. I will miss her.”

“She was very fond of you,” Peter told him.

“And I of her. Who would do such a thing?”

“A monster named Wolfe. I’m going to find him, and make him pay.”

“Be careful. This is the Devil’s work.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said,” the cop’s voice rang out.

“I must be going,” the Fool said. “Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

The Fool disappeared before his eyes, as did the other spirits crammed inside the parlor, leaving only Madame Marie’s worn deck of Tarot cards spilled across a worn rug on the parlor floor. Peter shut the door, and turned to face the irate cop.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Who the hell were you talking to?” the cop asked.

“Myself.”

“Come again?”

“She was a special person. I had to say good-bye.”

“I told you to stay out of there. Let me see some ID.”

Peter handed him his wallet. The cop gave his identification a cursory inspection, and flipped the wallet back to him. “Get out of here. Don’t let me see you hanging around.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked to the next block and ducked beneath an awning to get out of the rain. When a psychic died, there was a void felt on both sides of life, a tear in the fabric of existence. There was no one waiting in the wings to fill Madame Marie’s shoes, no apprentice who could jump in and pick up where she’d left off. Her gifts had been unique, and could never be replaced. She’d helped thousands of people, and done countless good deeds, none of which would ever be recorded. She had made a difference, and her loss would forever haunt him.

He wanted to scream. The monster inside of him had woken up. He could only keep it contained for so long. Eventually, it would come out. When it did, Wolfe would pay for what he’d done.

Lester Rowe gave psychic readings out of a building on Second Street on the Lower East Side. Once a haven for the homeless, the area had been transformed by upscale apartments and trendy restaurants. Rowe’s building was run-down, and stood out like a sore thumb.

Wolfe sat in the reception area waiting his turn. The room was hot, and he was sweating. Beneath his coat was the hand axe he’d purchased at a hardware store on First Avenue. It was not the kind of thing he wanted to be showing off.

Beside him sat a crazy woman with beautiful rings on every finger of each hand. In her lap sat a fluffy toy dog with hair covering its eyes. Both had pink ribbons tied in their hair like characters out of a warped fairy tale.

“Are you going on a trip?” the crazy woman inquired.

Wolfe stared at an imaginary point in space, and said nothing.

“I always come to see Lester before I take a trip,” she said, ignoring his snub. “Lester always knows what the weather will be like where I’m going, and which restaurants are good, and all the places to avoid. His prescience is extraordinary.”

Wolfe wanted to tell her that she could get the same information off the Internet, but remained mute.

“Excuse me? Did you say something?” the crazy woman asked.

Wolfe shook his head, and kept looking straight ahead.