James Swain - Dark Magic

A yell sent him an inch off the floor.

“Peter!” Max called out. “Come here. Hurry!”

“I’m coming!”

He slipped the DVD into his pocket with a promise that he’d return it once he’d had a look. Then, he rushed out of the bedroom and down the hallway. Max and Rowe stood with their shoulders to the front door.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked.

“It’s Wolfe,” Max explained, frantically dialing his cell phone. “One of Lester’s neighbors mistakenly buzzed him in. I’m calling 911.”

“He’s in the building?” Peter asked.

“Yes!” they both said.

Peter’s vision clouded over. A burning rage swelled his chest and made his breathing shallow. Since he was a boy, he’d wanted to meet up with someone connected to his parents’ deaths. How he would act had played itself out countless times in his imagination. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Entering the kitchen, he grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the trash. It made a harsh sound against his palm. Returning to the hallway, he placed his hand on Max’s shoulder.

“Stand aside,” he said.

“Peter, don’t be foolish,” his teacher said. “I just spoke with an operator. A cruiser is on its way.”

“I said, stand aside.”

“Peter, no.”

“Do it. Both of you. Now. ”

Peter had been told that he looked like a demon when he became enraged. It must have been true, because Rowe and his teacher backed away from the door.

“You going to fight him?” Rowe asked.

“That was the idea,” Peter replied.

Rowe grabbed a walking stick out of a bucket by the door, and thrust it into Peter’s other hand. It was made of walnut, and felt good and solid.

“Take this. It’s got some heft to it.”

“Thanks. Don’t come out until I say so.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Peter, please be careful.”

“I will, Max.”

“Make sure you hit him first, and hard.”

“Good idea.”

“Good luck, my boy.”

Rowe did him the courtesy of throwing back the dead bolt and opening the door. Peter squared his shoulders and stepped outside the apartment. He supposed he should have felt apprehensive, yet for some reason, he felt more confident than he ever had in his life.

He walked onto the landing, ready to slay the dragon.

Everybody had a history.

Peter had read that in a book whose author had survived the Holocaust. The book’s message had been clear. Every person had events in their past which were painful, and hard to bear. It was part of life, and there was no getting around it.

Deal with it.

He had been dealing with his parents’ deaths for as long as could remember. So long that it had become a fabric of his life. He had learned to cope during holidays, birthdays, and when he needed a shoulder to cry on, or an ear to listen. He had accepted that the two people who loved him most were gone, and that there was nothing he could do about it.

Deal with it.

He had, as best he could. Becoming a magician had let him escape to a make-believe world where he could manipulate reality, and pretend nothing bad had ever happened to him. But the anger was still there, and always would be. It rumbled inside of him like a volcano, bubbling just below the surface, hidden to everyone but himself.

Until now.

His footsteps sounded like cannons going off as he ran down the apartment stairwell. The coldness had returned to his joints, and he could not stop shivering. He stopped to look over the railing. Wolfe was on the landing below, holding a metal pipe in his hand.

“Hey, asshole,” Peter shouted.

Wolfe looked straight up. His mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Remember me?”

Peter threw the whiskey bottle at the wall behind Wolfe’s head. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying tiny shards of glass into his enemy’s face. Wolfe let out a startled yell, and bolted down the stairs.

“Coward!”

Peter hopped over the railing, and landed on the steps below. Wolfe was already to the next landing, and running hard. The young magician hopped over the railing again, then again. He’d never been much of an athlete, yet now he felt like he could have won a decathlon. Reaching the first floor, he stopped and looked around the empty lobby. Wolfe was gone. His breathing grew short, and his vision narrowed. In the theater of his mind, he saw Wolfe hiding outside the apartment house on the stoop, waiting to strike when he emerged. He could see the tiny cuts on Wolfe’s face, and even smell his foul breath. It was like having a target in his sights.

He clutched the walking stick. He’d never been able to project his thoughts like this before. A new gift, courtesy of the spirits. How long it would last, he had no idea.

Kicking open the front door, he came out of the apartment swinging. Wolfe was right where he’d expected, and he caught him on the side of the face with the stick. The cry of pain was worth savoring. He chased Wolfe into the street, and began to strike his enemy at will. Every blow found its mark, and produced howls of excruciating pain. Each time Wolfe attempted to counter or strike back, Peter saw the blow or kick coming seconds before it was delivered, and parried it. Wolfe was bigger and stronger, yet hopelessly outmatched. His eyes took on a desperate look.

“No more,” Wolfe said.

“You quitting?”

“Yes. Stop hitting me.”

“Put your arms in the air.”

Wolfe raised his arms in surrender. Blood was pouring out of his mouth and nose. Peter fought back the urge to strike him again, and finish the job. Looking into Wolfe’s soulless eyes, he saw a little boy who’d been tortured by his father, who’d grown up to be a torturer and killer himself. He had a history, too, only it was no excuse for who he’d become.

“Start talking,” Peter said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the Order.”

“No thanks.”

Peter raised his stick and took aim. One blow was all it would take to send him straight to hell where he belonged. Wolfe recoiled in fear.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you the little that I know. There are three elders of the Order. I’ve never seen their faces, nor do I know their names. They send me jobs to do, and pay me well. That’s the arrangement.”

Peter thought back to the three men he’d seen whisk his parents away. Were those the elders? Something told him they were, and he said, “One of the elders has crooked teeth and a twisted nose. What’s his name?”

“Like I told you, I’ve never seen their faces,” Wolfe said.

“You must have some idea.”

A spark of recognition sparked Wolfe’s eyes. He knew something. Peter whacked him in the kneecap. His enemy let out a muffled cry and sank to the ground like he was melting. Peter brought the tip of the stick beneath Wolfe’s chin, and raised his head so their eyes met. Wolfe’s life flashed before his eyes.

“Last chance,” Peter said.

Wolfe blinked. He was not ready to die.

“I don’t know who the elders are,” Wolfe said. “But the other members of the Order might. There’s one here in New York. A spy. I’ll bring him to you.”

“What do you mean, a spy? What does he do?”

“He gathers information. Before I arrived he emailed me the list of names of people I was supposed to kill.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name. Just his cell number.”

“Would he know who the elders are?”

“He might. He’s been with the organization for a while. Longer than me.”

“Give me his cell number.”

“It’s in my wallet.”

“Get it. And no funny stuff.”

Wolfe pulled out his wallet and extracted a slip of paper from his billfold. Peter leaned forward in anticipation. It was just the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. Springing up, he shoved Peter and sent him backwards, then hobbled over to his motorbike and jumped on. The engine barked to life.