James Swain - Dark Magic

“Special delivery,” Ralph said.

“Is something wrong? Who’s that standing behind you?”

Ralph’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he sunk to the floor still clutching the package. Behind him stood the man who’d attacked her and Reggie that morning. It was Wolfe, clutching a club in his hand.

“Aunt Milly, call 911,” Holly shouted.

Wolfe kicked the door before Holly could shut it. The chain broke, and the door hit her in the face. Seeing stars, she fell to the floor. Wolfe entered and slammed the door.

“Hello, bitch,” Wolfe said.

“It’s witch,” Holly whispered.

“I like bitch better. Stand up.”

“I can’t,” Holly replied, fighting to stay conscious.

Wolfe grabbed Holly by the hair, and jerked her head so he was looking in her face.

“You’re a difficult one, aren’t you?”

“Go to hell.”

Wolfe dragged Holly kicking and screaming into the living room like a caveman. Her aunt was waiting, and tried to hit Wolfe with an antique lamp. Wolfe lashed out, and sent her aunt sprawling to the floor. Max was next, and threw a clumsy punch at Wolfe’s head. The old magician also ended up on the floor.

Holly pushed herself into a kneeling position. Blood was pouring out of her mouth, and one of her bottom teeth felt loose. She looked up at Wolfe.

The assassin was smiling at her.

“Your turn,” he said.

Holly braced herself. She had accepted her own mortality long ago. It was part of being a witch. What she hadn’t accepted was that she might be brutally murdered in the prime of her life. That wasn’t fair, and she told herself she must fight back.

Through the living room window, she saw the crows dancing on the branches. They knew something was wrong, yet without Milly’s direction, would not react.

Help me, she told them.

Wolfe raised his club.

There was no faster driver than a New York cabbie. Peter threw money at the driver and jumped out of the backseat. His shoulder hit the front door as he entered the Dakota.

The guard’s chair behind the front desk was empty. That was strange-there was always one guard behind the desk, and another standing in the lobby, ready to hold open the front door.

“Anyone home?”

A dull banging sound got his attention. The noise was coming from the coat closet behind the desk. He jerked open the closet door. A red-faced security guard stood inside. His wrists were bound together with wire, his mouth covered with duct tape.

Wolfe had beat him here.

Peter had felt it during the cab ride over, the coldness in his bones telling him that evil was knocking at his door. He ripped the tape from the guard’s mouth. The man winced.

“How long has he been here?” Peter asked.

The guard gasped for air. “Just a couple of minutes. He came in pretending to be a delivery man, then jumped us.”

“Us? Where’s your partner?”

“He took him upstairs with him.”

“Can you free yourself?”

“Yes, once I get out of this damn closet,” the guard said.

Peter ran to the elevators and hit the call button. Nothing happened, and he stared at the LED displays above the doors. The building had three elevators, and each was stuck on the fifth floor. Milly’s apartment was also on the fifth floor. He quickly found the stairwell, and flew up the stairs. The rage had returned, and he felt ready to take on an army.

He came out of the stairwell on the fifth floor, and ran the length of the hall to Milly’s apartment. Outside her door the second security guard lay on the floor, moaning softly. The apartment door was closed, and Peter rammed it with his shoulder like he’d seen cops do in the movies. The door flew off its hinges, and he raced inside.

“Milly? Holly? Max?”

“Help,” came a voice from the living room.

It was Holly, sounding hurt. He entered the living room expecting the worst. Milly lay on the floor in a pool of blood, while Max knelt beside her. Across the room, Holly was having her hair pulled out by Wolfe, who was preparing to strike her with a club.

“Stop!” Peter said.

Wolfe stopped what he was doing to look his way.

“You’re an hour late, and a dollar short,” the assassin said.

Peter grabbed a flower vase from a table and dumped its contents onto the floor. He’d ended Zack’s life with a miserable screwdriver, and felt certain that he could arrange an equally inglorious demise for Wolfe as well. Flipping the vase over, he grabbed it by the neck.

He moved forward.

“Do you really think you can hurt me with that?” Wolfe mocked him.

He kept coming, halving the distance between them.

“Stop right there, or I’ll crush her skull,” Wolfe exclaimed.

Peter stopped on a dime. He heard a loud Ping! sound that reminded him of hail falling during a storm. There had been no hail outside, just a heavy rain, and he ignored it.

“Let her go, or I’ll kill you,” he said.

“I’m the one holding the cards here. Not you.”

Wolfe was wrong. Peter had the power to hurt Wolfe, and bring this to an end. Call it a gift, or a curse; whatever it was, he’d had this power his entire life, and had just never known it was there. Now, he did, and he was going to unleash all its fury on Wolfe.

Peter raised the flower vase. “Last chance.”

“You think you can take me down with that?” Wolfe said.

“Sure do.”

“Take your best shot.”

The pinging sound had not gone away. Peter glanced at the picture window that faced the park. Milly’s crows were throwing their bodies against the glass, trying to get inside to save their mistress before it was too late. Or maybe they knew how evil Wolfe was, and were trying to stop him. Whatever their motive, they looked ready to die, just like him.

Peter threw the vase across the living room. He’d had lousy aim since childhood, and missed his enemy by several feet.

“Ha,” Wolfe laughed.

The vase shattered against the wall. Instead of falling to the floor, the jagged pieces flipped backward through the air, and impaled themselves in Wolfe’s neck.

“Ha, yourself,” Peter said.

Wolfe screamed in pain, and let the club slip from his hand. With blood pouring down his neck, he staggered around the living room. With each step, his eyes grew more panicked.

“You tricked me,” he gasped.

“Yes, I did,” Peter said.

The living room had a working fireplace that got plenty of use during the winter. Wolfe fell to his knees in front of it, and looked ready to pass out. The tattoo on his neck began to glow, and his eyes snapped open. He pulled the poker from the ashes, and struggled to his feet.

Max and Milly had not moved from their spot on the floor.

Wolfe lunged toward them.

Peter stood on the other side of the living room. He thought back to the night he’d lost his parents. He couldn’t live through that again, and looked at the birds.

“Get him!” he screamed.

The window imploded, allowing the crows to enter. In a mad flurry of beating wings, they crossed the living room and swallowed up Wolfe, biting at his clothing and his skin. He looked like a scarecrow having the stuffing pulled out of him. Within seconds, his clothes had been torn apart, and his face was a bloody mess. A pitiful sound escaped his lips.

“Help me,” Wolfe begged.

Peter hesitated. The image of the dead and dying in Times Square had never been far from his thoughts. Wolfe had been in the center of the carnage, assessing his work like the merchant of death that he was. With Wolfe gone, there would be no massacre.

“No,” Peter said firmly.

“Please!”

“No,” he said again.

A gust of rain blew into the living room. The crows pulled Wolfe toward the broken window. Wolfe began to kick wildly as the birds lifted him cleanly off the floor.