James Swain - Dark Magic

Even monsters had dreams. Wolfe’s dream was to one day move to the Seychelles Islands in the Indian Ocean, and start up a business. He had his eye on a small ferry that took people out to the coral reefs in the outer islands. It was a two-person operation, which was where Rita came in.

His account appeared and he checked the balance. To his surprise, all of the money was still there. It gave him hope that maybe he hadn’t taken such a bad hit.

Exiting the screen, he pulled up the Web site for his bank account in Guernsey, a tiny island in the English Channel. The money in Guernsey was still there as well.

“What the hell,” he said under his breath.

“Did you get robbed?” Blair asked.

He’d forgotten all about her. He shook his head and smiled.

“Good,” she said.

He checked his bank accounts on the Isle of Man, Luxembourg, and Andorra. Not a penny had been touched in any account, and a numbing sensation crept over him.

Rowe had tricked him. The little psychic had figured out Wolfe was an assassin. Instead of panicking, Rowe had looked into Wolfe’s black soul, and found the things which Wolfe was afraid of. The expression “played like a fiddle” came to mind.

Rowe had been wearing a bathrobe during the reading. More than likely, he’d retreated to his apartment, and would be easy to hunt down.

Wolfe stood up. His waitress came over and told him his food would be right out.

“Keep it,” he told her.

He started to leave, and caught Blair looking at him.

“You offered to pay for my lunch,” she said.

“Piss off,” he said.

He hit the sidewalk. He checked the trash bin for his axe. It had already been pinched.

He started to run. If he’d learned anything on the battlefield, it was that every second counted when it came to dealing with the enemy. Rowe’s apartment was three blocks away. A two-minute run, if he caught the lights right. He passed a courier holding a delivery envelope. Parked by the curb was a Suzuki motorbike with a helmet resting on the seat.

Wolfe stopped. “That a Razor?”

“Sure is,” the courier replied.

The courier stared at the addresses on the storefronts. He looked lost. His breathing reflected this. It was slightly accelerated.

Wolfe glanced up and down Avenue B. The street was filled with delivery trucks and yellow cabs, while the sidewalks were filled with people holding newspapers over their heads. Some of his best killing had been done in the middle of busy cities like this. People assumed they were safe in crowds, and that no harm could possibly come to them. Wolfe knew otherwise.

Wolfe got up next to the courier. Raising his arm, he chopped the side of the man’s neck. The courier’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he crumpled into Wolfe’s arms. A quick search of his pockets turned up a key ring. Wolfe laid the courier onto the sidewalk as two punked-out teenagers walked past.

“My friend’s feeling a bit under the weather,” Wolfe explained. “He’ll come round.”

Wolfe straddled the Razor. The bike lived up to its name. It was sleek and made plenty of noise. Soon he was racing crosstown with revenge on his mind. Lester Rowe was going to pay for messing with Wolfe’s dreams.

Peter and Max could not get into Lester Rowe’s apartment.

Max tried the intercom in the lobby. When there was no response, his teacher went outside to the sidewalk, and shouted Rowe’s name through cupped hands. Four floors up, a window opened, and Rowe’s red head popped out.

“Who is it?” Rowe called down suspiciously.

“Max Romeo. I’m here with Peter. Let us in. We need to speak with you.”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Max. Can it wait until some other time?”

“No!”

“He’s already been here,” Peter said, looking up and down the street.

His teacher turned to stare at him. “Who’s been here?”

“Wolfe. I can feel it in my bones.”

“What do you mean? Feel what?”

Peter’s body had gone cold, and the very tips of his fingers felt like cubes of ice. With the sensation had come the knowledge that Wolfe had recently been here.

“I can’t explain it,” Peter said.

Rowe buzzed them in. They climbed the creaky staircase to Rowe’s apartment. At the third floor landing, they stopped so Max could catch his breath. His teacher’s cheeks had turned pink, and he seemed on the verge of collapsing.

“Still smoking those cheap cigars?” Peter asked.

“I’ve cut back,” Max replied. “Now, I only smoke one at a time.”

“I know this great program to help you quit. Every time you want a smoke, you dial a phone number, and a guy comes over and gets drunk with you.”

“Your jokes are getting worse all the time.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Touche.”

They climbed the last flight of stairs. Upon reaching the fourth floor, Rowe stepped out of his apartment wearing a suit and snappy bow tie.

“Hello, Max. Hello, Peter,” the diminutive psychic said.

“Hello, Lester,” Max replied. “Sorry to barge in, but there’s a madman running around the city trying to kill our group. He’s already done away with Madame Maire and her husband.”

Rowe’s face sank at the news of Madame Marie’s death. “He visited my parlor a short while ago. He was going to cut my head off with an axe! I saw it in my crystal ball. This is horrible news about Marie, the poor thing. Come inside, I’m just finishing packing.”

Rowe dead-bolted the door behind them. The apartment was a reminder of what dwellings in New York once looked like, with high-ceilinged rooms, dark wood floors, and ornate crown molding. Rowe entered a bedroom where an open suitcase lay on the bed.

“Any idea why he’s after us?” Rowe asked, tossing clothes into the suitcase.

“He was sent by the Order of Astrum,” Max explained.

“The Order of Astrum. I haven’t heard that name in years.” Rowe closed the suitcase and locked the clasps. “The man’s pure evil. I looked into his future, and saw scores of people dying because of him. Is this the same fellow Peter saw during the seance?”

“Same man,” Peter said.

“Egad. What’s he up to?”

Peter shook his head. That was the frustrating part of seeing into the future. Often, he had no idea what the things he saw meant. A buzzer in the hallway rang.

Rowe looked alarmed.

“Ignore it,” Max suggested.

The buzzer rang again. It had a harsh, angry edge to it. Peter went to the bedroom window and gazed down at the street. A motorbike was parked at the curb with a helmet resting on its seat. The bike’s owner stood on the stoop, hidden from view. The only people who used motorbikes in the city were couriers and drug dealers.

“Are you expecting a delivery?” Peter asked.

“My travel agent is sending a ticket over,” Rowe said. “I have a cousin in Ireland that I haven’t laid eyes on in twenty years. I thought it was time we became reacquainted.”

“Don’t let him in until you get confirmation,” Peter said.

“Good idea.”

Rowe walked out of the bedroom and went down the hallway to where the intercom was located. He looked shaken by what had happened, and was muttering to himself. Peter turned to his teacher. “You’d better watch him, Max.”

“Right,” his teacher said.

Peter returned to the window and gazed down. The man on the sidewalk was gone. The icy feeling returned to his bones, and made him shiver.

Beside Rowe’s bed was a bookshelf. For a person who was against technological progress, Rowe had a large collection of DVDs, with labels like LIVING DEAD/BOMBAY 1/19/76, FIRE BREATHERS/BALI 3/16/88, WITCH DOCTORS/JAMAICA 9/07/94. One title caught his eye, and he pulled it from the shelf. CLAIRE amp; HENRY WARREN 12/10/92. His parents, filmed right before their deaths. On the cover, Rowe had scribbled a note which Peter now read aloud. “First encounter with the Order of Astrum. Claire and Henry showed us things that were beyond the realm of our imaginations.”