Larry Correia: Spellbound

He’d started hitting various collections after he’d combed through all of the Grimnoir Society’s collected Rune Arcanium. The Society was proud of the information they’d collected over the years, and they’d kept the things that they thought particularly dangerous a secret. Once he’d taken the oath he’d been able to learn the collected spells of the Society, and though it had been educational, their spells were nothing to worry about.

The Society didn’t know much about the Enemy either, and it seemed the elders thought he was crazy for even suggesting its existence. Sullivan knew something else was out there, searching for the Power, and it would find them eventually. They had to be ready. The Chairman had understood that. Why couldn’t anyone else?

Sullivan rubbed his tired eyes, shoved the latest useless research paper off to the side, and checked his watch. It was nearly closing time. Studying magic was hard work, but it beat breaking rocks. The library was quiet, as such places tended to be, but it was especially quiet tonight. February was late in the year for this much snow, but there had been a real cold snap over the last few days, and the city was blanketed in white. Everybody with any sense had already gone home.

“Hi. They told me you could help me.”

He hadn’t even heard her coming. Sullivan looked up to see a fancy mink coat snuggled around a pretty redhead. “Pardon me, ma’am?”

“They said you were a librarian and that you could help me find something.” She had the build of a calendar girl, the voice of upper-crust Manhattan, and a face designed to turn men into easily malleable putty, and as she batted her big flirtatious eyelashes at him, he could tell that she was used to men usually doing what she asked, and quickly. “You don’t look like a librarian, though.”

That’s because he was a square-jawed, thick-armed, solemn block of a man who had obviously lived a high-mileage life. “I’m not that kind of librarian.”

“What kind are you then?”

“The kind that isn’t much help. You need to head that way.” He pointed down the stacks. “Ask the nice ladies at the big desk in the middle.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can be helpful if you want. You strike me like a real chivalrous type.”

Sullivan just wanted to be left alone. “Not really.”

“What’re you reading?” she asked, craning her head over his shoulder to read. “Oh… Powers? Are you an Active?”

“No,” he lied as he pushed the book away. “Just an interesting topic is all.”

“Too bad. I’m fascinated by Actives. Can you imagine being able to do such amazing things? Controlling weather, reading minds, changing gravity, healing the sick… Oh, how would it be?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“You don’t seem very talkative. What’s your name?”

“Nobody important.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Important.”

Sullivan could feel a pounding headache coming on. It must have been the eyestrain from twelve hours of reading small print. “Sorry, lady. Been a long day. Place is about to close.” He paused to rub his temples. “If you want to find something you’d best hurry along.”

She regarded him curiously. Pretty girls weren’t used to getting the shove-off like that. “Well then. Never mind. Good night.” She walked off, heels clicking against the marble floor. He hadn’t heard her come, but he heard her go.

Despite the sudden headache, Sullivan watched her appreciatively. There was a fine-looking woman, perfectly friendly, just needing a hand, and he had to go and run her off in a rude fashion. Nobody had ever accused him of being overly friendly, or friendly at all for that matter, but he’d become even more withdrawn over the last year. That was to be expected. Anyone close to him was in danger. He was a marked man.

Delilah had died because of him. There was just no going back from something like that.

Ten minutes later Sullivan had gotten all the day’s books put back in place. There was no need to say any goodbyes to the staff. They didn’t know his real name anyway. Tomorrow he’d leave town. Days would pass before anyone even noticed the big quiet man was gone.

The front steps were slick with fresh snow. Pulling his fedora down tight, his scarf up over most of his face, and hunching his broad shoulders against the wind, Sullivan set out for home. He passed between the two big stone lions, Lennox and Astor, which were well-known local landmarks. One of the mayoral candidates had suggested renaming them Patience and Fortitude, because since the economy had gone to hell and everybody was out of work, it was going to take patience and fortitude for New Yorkers to get out of this mess.

Little did all those New Yorkers realize that if it hadn’t been for the sacrifice of a bunch of brave unknown Actives, this whole part of the country would be nothing more than a big pile of ash. Bitter cold always put Sullivan in a melancholy mood.

The city got rougher and older only a few blocks from the library. He’d picked a rundown place to lay his head. New York had been especially hard hit over the last few years, so there had been plenty of vacancies to choose from. Folks in the rough parts of town paid less attention to each other, which was exactly what he wanted.

At least the snow covered the trash. The city looked clean, briefly, when it snowed. A group of bums were huddled around a burn barrel, hands extended for warmth; residents of the local Hoover Town. The vacant lots were filled with shacks and huts assembled out of junk and old tires. They looked over, but it was too cold and Sullivan was too physically intimidating to even bother panhandling.

There was a scream from ahead. A woman, and it didn’t sound like she was playing around. The noise came from a nearby alley. The woman screamed again. There was a bang as a trash can fell over and then a man gave a rough laugh. “Help me! Somebody help me!” The cries echoed down the brick walls.

The bums just lowered their heads and stared at their fire. There were only a few cars on the street. The local businesses were all boarded up. He was on his own. There wasn’t even a decision to be made, since his nature was set in stone. Sullivan sighed and walked to the mouth of the alley.

There were six figures in the dark. One was obviously the victim, female, being held against the wall by the neck. The man holding her was nearly Sullivan’s size, and his four buddies were lined up behind. They liked to run in packs, numbers made them tough, these typical urban rats, always thin, hungry, and mean. One of them was tearing through the woman’s purse, looking for cash or anything they could trade for hooch or dope or whatever their game was.

It was dark, but light enough to fight. His magic was ready. He felt the Power built up inside his chest and used a tiny bit to see the nearby world as it really was. Everything was just matter, some of it was heavy, some light, but everything felt the tug of gravity, and gravity belonged to Jake Sullivan.

“Let her go.” He didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Part of him wanted the fight. It had been awhile, and he hated men like these.

“Ain’t none of your business, buddy,” sneered the big one. He turned enough that Sullivan could see the gleam of a little knife in his off hand. “Keep on walking.”

He felt for the heavy spots that might indicate a weapon, but the only thing dense on these thugs were their thick heads. No guns. Blades, leather saps maybe, but those things were harder to pick out from the background matter. One solid pair of brass knuckles stood out like a beacon. Surprisingly, it felt like the woman might have a compact pistol hidden inside her coat, but she must not have been able to get to it in time, or maybe she’d lacked the nerve to pull it. The other possibility was that she was in on it, and this was all some elaborate attempt to rob him, but it didn’t feel that way. The big jerk with the knife was enjoying himself too much.