James Swain - Dark Magic

Peter looked at Holly, now standing beside him.

“Are you controlling them?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I’m learning.”

The crows carried their prey through the window. Wolfe had stopped making any sound, and was frozen in fear. Once outside, he hung in the air, the sight both beautiful and horrifying at the same time. Peter crossed the room with Holly beside him, and stopped by the window. The crows pivoted Wolfe around so he faced them.

“Please spare me,” Wolfe begged.

The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. How many of his victims had he spared in his life? Not a single one, Peter guessed.

“Tell me about Times Square,” Peter called to him.

“What about it?”

“How were you going to kill everyone? With a bomb?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wolfe replied.

Peter felt his blood boil. The coldness was gone, replaced by a hot wire that ignited his veins, and made him as capable of ending a life as the man hanging outside. He leaned against the windowsill, and stuck his head into the blowing rain. “You killed my friends, but I’m still going to give you a chance. Tell me what your mission is.”

“To kill you, and your psychic friends,” Wolfe said, his voice growing hoarse.

“Tell me the rest of it.”

“There isn’t any more.”

“Liar.”

Wolfe dropped a few feet in the air as the crows tired. He blinked wildly, and Peter wondered if his life was flashing before his eyes.

“They can’t hold him any longer,” Holly said.

“Tell them to bring him back inside,” Peter said.

“I’ll try.”

The crows tried to bring Wolfe back into the apartment. His weight was too much, and he fell several more feet. A startled yell came out of his mouth.

“They can’t do it,” she said.

One by one, the crows released their grip, and disappeared into the night. Wolfe appeared to be hanging on an invisible thread as he floated in the air. The thread finally broke. He flailed his arms and legs while descending to the pavement below.

Holly turned away, unable to watch.

Peter stuck his head out the window just in time to see Wolfe tear through the building’s awning. His body hit something on the sidewalk, and lay perfectly still. Peter didn’t think anyone could survive such a fall, but was not willing to take a chance. He turned from the window to face Holly, and saw that she was crying.

“I just killed him,” she sobbed.

“It had to be done.”

“I’m not a monster, am I?”

“You did what had to be done. I’m going downstairs. Please stay here.”

“Whatever you say.”

Peter crossed the room to check on Milly and Max. The old magician was sitting on the floor, and had pulled Milly’s head into his lap. A painful-looking welt had appeared on Milly’s forehead, and Peter saw her eyelids flutter.

“Is she okay?”

“Just knocked out,” Max said. “What about Wolfe?”

“I think he’s dead,” Peter replied.

“You think? Better make sure. We don’t want another round of this.”

“He fell five floors, Max. He’s dead.”

The old magician gave him a scornful look. Peter had learned everything he knew from Max, yet there were times that he wondered how much his teacher had really told him.

“He was sent by the Order. Five floors is nothing,” Max said. “You need to check.”

Peter nodded, and hurried from the apartment.

Peter took the stairway to the lobby and ran outside. Wolfe’s crumpled body lay on the sidewalk. His clothes were on fire, his face seared beyond recognition. Smoldering chestnuts littered the ground. In the street sat the damaged chestnut cart he had landed upon.

Peter knelt down, just to make sure Wolfe was dead.

He was.

Beneath the damaged awning stood the security guard Peter had freed from the closet. The guard had a cell phone pressed to his ear, and a bewildered look on his face.

“I could use a little help,” Peter said.

With the guard’s help, Peter patted Wolfe down until the flames were extinguished. It was the perfect send-off for someone going straight to hell, he thought.

“No one’s going to believe this,” the guard said.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

“He was being held in the air by a bunch of birds.”

A siren pierced the air. No one had ever accused the New York police of being slow. He needed to plant the seed of doubt with the guard before the police arrived.

“What birds? What are you talking about?” Peter asked.

“You didn’t see them?” the guard asked.

“Afraid not.”

“Come on. Don’t tell me I’m seeing things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said. “I went into Milly Adams’ apartment, and found this guy attacking my friends. We fought, and I threw him out the window, and he fell to the sidewalk.”

“You threw him out the window? What about the flipping birds?”

“You must have imagined them.”

“No such luck. I stopped drinking twenty years ago. They were black and making this godawful racket. I think they were the crows that live in the oak trees across the street.”

“I didn’t see them.”

The guard looked confused, just as Peter intended. If the guard doubted himself, the police would question his story as well, and hopefully not believe him. A white Crown Vic with a flashing bubble on its dashboard came racing up Central Park West. The cavalry had arrived.

“What are you going to tell the police?” Peter asked.

“That’s a darn good question,” the guard said.

The guard waved the vehicle down. It braked with a rubbery squeal, and four men wearing dark suits jumped out. Each sported a short haircut and had a Bluetooth in his ear. Not cops, but agents of some other law enforcement agency, Peter decided.

Two of the agents checked Wolfe to make sure he was dead.

“No life in this one,” one of them said.

The man in charge nodded grimly. He was built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and no visible neck. He confronted Peter and the guard.

“Which one of you called 911?” he asked.

“I did,” the guard said.

“Come over by the car. I need to speak with you.”

The guard stood by the Crown Vic and answered questions. Peter felt his cell phone vibrate, and slipped it from his pocket. It was Holly, sending him a text message.

U OK?

YES

I’M IN THE LOBBY WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?

Peter glanced over his shoulder. Holly looked at him through a window, her breath fogging the glass. He turned back around, and resumed texting.

GOVERNMENT THEY WILL PROBABLY QUESTION YOU

WHAT SHOULD WE DO?

LIE

I KNOW THAT! SOMETHING WRONG WITH MILLY

WHAT?!

NOT TALKING RIGHT

CALL AMBULANCE

DID THAT I’M SCARED

He again looked through the window. Holly looked very scared.

SHE’LL BE OKAY

HOPE SO

“Hey, I want to talk to you.”

Peter looked up. The agent in charge was motioning to him. The guard stood to one side with a sheepish look on his face. He’d told him about the birds.

Peter walked over to the car, prepared for the worst.

“Who were you talking to on your phone,” the agent in charge asked.

“A girl I know. Who are you?”

The agent flipped open his wallet. Chad Morningstar, CIA. The CIA had kidnaped Nemo, and Peter could not let the same thing happen to him, or Holly, or Max and Milly. None of them deserved to lose their freedom because of this.