James Swain - Dark Magic

“What does that mean?”

“I think you’re lying to me.”

“Why would I do that?”

Garrison put his elbows on the table. “I’m going to share a little secret with you, Peter. For the past ten years, the FBI has been getting anonymous letters warning them about disasters that haven’t happened yet. The letters are all postmarked from New York, and they’re written in different sets of handwriting. About, say, seven different sets. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about those letters, would you?”

Peter thought he was going to be sick.

“Because something tells me you’re one of these psychics,” Garrison went on. “I can’t prove it, but then again, I really don’t want to. I just want to know what you know, and stop whatever terrible attack the Order is planning for New York. Will you help me?”

Peter leaned back in his chair. If he told Garrison what he knew, his life would never be the same. But if he didn’t, thousands might die. He needed to come clean with Garrison if he wanted to stop that from happening. Seen in that light, he really had no other choice.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m part of the group that’s been sending you letters. I was about to contact you about Wolfe, who I saw during a seance. He’s planning to attack Times Square this Tuesday night after the shows let out. He’s got some kind of weapon that doesn’t make any noise. People will just drop on the sidewalk, and die. I can’t figure out what it is.”

“You saw this?” Garrison asked incredulously.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Could you be wrong about the timing, or location?”

“I’ve never been wrong before.”

“Really.”

Peter nodded. “Really,” he added for emphasis.

“Do you think Wolfe knows that you know?”

It was an idea which Peter hadn’t considered. If true, it would explain why Wolfe had come to the theater and attacked him, and why he was trying to kill the others as well.

“He might,” Peter said.

Garrison abruptly stood up from the table. A new look had sparked the special agent’s eyes. Hope. He came around the table, and pumped Peter’s hand.

“This will help us find him. You did the right thing telling me.”

Peter wasn’t so sure. The authorities had never understood psychics, and he doubted they ever would. He walked Garrison to the front of the brownstone. The rest of the team was in the living room, playing with the illusions. Special Agent Nan Perry was sitting cross-legged on a Magic Carpet while floating in space. Her two partners had taken a liking to the Arm Chopper, and were taking turns cutting off each other’s hands.

“Playtime’s over,” Garrison announced.

The three agents filed out of the room and went outside to the street. Garrison stopped at the door, and again shook his hand.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Garrison said.

No, it wasn’t, Peter thought. A secret was never safe once too many people knew it. He’d opened Pandora’s box, and did not know how he’d ever get it closed.

Garrison handed him a business card. “Call me if you have any more visions.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.”

Garrison walked down to the sidewalk and got into his vehicle. Peter shut the door and pressed his forehead against the cold wood. He could not help but wonder if he was doomed.

One West 72nd Street was the address of the most legendary apartment building in New York, the famed Dakota. Home to celebrities, rock stars, and the fabulously wealthy, it was a secretive place that had inspired graphic novels, television shows, and a movie about a coven of witches.

As Max Romeo got out of the cab, he glanced nervously up and down the street. Wolfe was still on the loose, and Max needed to stay on his toes. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he passed through the Dakota’s main entrance, a porte cochere large enough for a horse-drawn carriage, where he found a uniformed attendant at the front desk. The attendant was new, and cast a suspicious eye at the aging magician.

“What can I do for you?” the attendant asked.

“I’m here to see Millicent Adams,” Max replied.

“Name please.”

“Max Romeo. I’ve been coming here for thirty years.”

“Reason for your visit.”

“That’s none of your business, good sir.”

The attendant raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to see some identification.”

“My good man, is that necessary?”

“We have rules, sir. If you won’t follow them, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Max didn’t like the attendant’s snippy attitude. In his closet was a pair of shoes older than this young man. Drawing back his sleeves, Max plucked an egg out of thin air and cracked it against the desk, pouring the yolk into a glass filled with mineral water that the attendant had been drinking. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maximilian Augustus Romeo, Master of the Impossible, available for private parties, birthdays, weddings, and bar mitzvahs. Would you like to see some more?”

The attendant stared at his ruined drink. “No.”

“Very well. Please call Millicent Adams. She’s expecting me.”

“What about my drink? Can you fix it?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Soon Max was riding an elevator to Milly’s floor. The shocked look on the attendant’s face was a keeper, and he found himself wishing he’d snapped a photo on his cell phone. The doors parted, and he walked down a hallway to Milly’s front door, where he rapped softly.

“It’s open,” a voice called from within.

He entered and headed for the living room. Milly stood by a large picture window facing Central Park. On the other side of the glass, a flock of crows were performing an aerial ballet. The birds’ movements were perfectly synchronized, and bordered on poetry.

Milly gazed at him in the glass. She wore an embroidered red robe of Oriental design, and a red sash in her silver hair. A tiny woman at five feet tall, she weighed no more than ninety pounds. But her presence could fill a stadium, and Max always felt puny around her.

“How bad is it, Max?”

“Bad,” he replied. “The Order of Astrum has sent an assassin to kill us. He did away with Marie and her husband last night, and tried to kill Lester and me this morning. Luckily, Peter came to our rescue, and beat him up. It was something to see.”

Milly blanched at the news that Marie was gone. In a subdued voice she said, “Peter saved you and Lester? How wonderful.”

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“Peter is changing, Milly. Something has triggered his powers to a new level. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. He seems astonished by it all, and is begging me to explain. On top of that, he’s talking to the FBI.”

“Is that it?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m certain that Peter will know how to deal with the FBI. My main concern is what you told Peter about himself.”

“Nothing, so far.”

“Are you planning to speak with him?”

“Yes, I am. Once Wolfe is caught and the dust settles, I plan to tell Peter about who he is, and who his parents were.”

“Why, pray tell?”

“Because he deserves to know. We’ve kept it from him for too long.”

Milly spun around. Max felt the unbearable weight of her stare. He shifted his feet uneasily, and gazed at the floor.

“I’m being a terrible hostess. Sit with me on the couch,” she said.

Together, they made the couch sag. The crows hovered outside, flapping their wings furiously. They were the small, pigeon-sized jackdaw variety, black from head to toe, and as feisty as pit bulls. They had migrated from Milly’s hometown of Ipswich, Massachusetts, when she’d relocated to New York, and now resided in a stand of oak trees across the street. Ipswich’s loss had been New York’s gain, with the birds providing regular entertainment for Milly and her guests. Witches held a powerful sway over animals, and the crows were as obedient, and loyal, as any domesticated pet.