Irina Syromyatnikova - My Path to Magic

“I’m stunned,” he concluded finally. “I took a course on dark magicians—even attended a workshop. Nothing like reality.”

“Theory without practice is dead! Go back to work.”

Striped police ribbon carved out from the monotonous landscape a large rectangle, inside of which the grass was either mowed short or burnt out to the roots. A convenient wide passage was cut through dense thickets of thorns. The three combat mages were busy, each one doing the work that suited him best.

Rispin rustled through the brush in the location of the secret burial. The exhumed corpse had been thoroughly examined, described, and its parts wrapped in packing paper. He was an experienced criminalist, able to make the dead speak without the aid of necromancy. The credit for his hire by NZAMIPS, and not by the criminal police, should be given solely to Coordinator Axel; NZAMIPS doubled his pay.

Sergeant Claymore plotted on a sheet of paper a detailed plan of the crime scene, concurrently sketching a draft of his future report. His subordinates flocked to him with their findings.

“He was right, that kid,” Gorchik came out of the bushes in overalls and goggles, the lenses of which made his face look like a fish tank. Needless to say, the dark did not like wearing glasses.

“What, someone called Rustle ?”

Gorchik winced: naming the only monster that was more or less responsive to the call of the otherworldly liquidators was considered bad taste among combat mages.

“ Shield , modified to specifically kill the white Source.”

Claymore raised his eyebrow. An interesting picture! The dark Source could exist for some time outside the body, but the white one was not receptive to the fixation on the pump-sign. There was a time when inquisitors could induce spontaneous manifestations of white magic, but the consequences of that were so horrendous…

“It does not look like they tried to exorcise the possessed here.”

“No, it doesn’t,” confirmed Gorchik. “The victim followed the killer to this place without any resistance, voluntarily called his or her Source during the ritual, and was murdered then. This requires either utmost dedication or an extreme amount of credibility to the murderer.”

“Given the age of the victim,” the sergeant nodded to the lovingly-wrapped remains, “one does not exclude the other.”

“That means that our scum is a highly respected person. A man like this you won’t approach without an order.”

Claymore frowned. “Shit! It increasingly looks like the artisans. I hoped they weren’t involved—so many years have passed, and Axel watches the white community thoroughly.”

“The place already smelled bad a year ago, but the empaths decided that there was a collective magic resonance. I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of those nerds now!”

The dark mages exchanged malevolent grins.

“What, are you done?” Rispin broke away from the excavation.

“How about you?” the sergeant looked at his watch.

The forensics expert shrugged. “Nothing. The scoundrel works exceptionally accurately. The bones are not damaged; apparently, the victim died from a puncture to the soft tissue. I can’t say anything more specific; the spell, accelerating decay, was applied. If the murders started ten years ago, it would be extremely difficult to find all the victims. The imprints of their auras will be hard to identify.”

“I’m in a better situation!” Gorchik boasted. “There are some fragments suitable for identification, but they won’t tell the overall picture.”

“Shit,” the sergeant spoke out. Hence, they couldn’t find the murderer with magic. They would have to use good old police methods. “Can we identify the victim?”

“Yes.”

“Compose his or her portrait, and we’ll show it at school. He was young, so he must be one of theirs. We are done for today. Tomorrow we’ll start to look for the rest. Can any of you ride a horse?”

For an urban dark, the idea of getting on a horse seemed unnatural.

“I see,” the sergeant sighed, “that means we’ll walk.”

Rispin muttered under his breath something dirty that rhymed well with “Tangor.” The sergeant himself could hardly refrain from swearing. No, in his mind he certainly understood the importance of catching the killer and the significance of their mission, but in his heart… Claymore wished with all his heart that the underage parasite would die in agony, infected with shingles. Well, he must have tried hard to find such a vile job for the three respected magicians! The sergeant did not doubt the success of the investigation—no villain escaped their team—but at the thought of how much time they would spend searching for the other corpses, he wanted to get drunk.

A call from the school caught me lying under the car: I finally got into that squeaky vehicle! Of course, Alfred didn’t let me work on the car right away; it was preceded by a thoughtful conversation about the benefits of front-wheel drive, the quality of local ethanol fuel, and the prospects of oil engines. Of course, he was not a professional alchemist and could not resist my obsessive charisma. I approached the adjustment of the carburetor with the piety that some people begin a prayer with, but then things got livelier. I started to feel great peace and happiness. The design of the machinery, clear and functional, was such a contrast to the intricacies of human existence that I sensed tears welling in my eyes. I officiated over the brake actuator (a critical part of cross-country driving) when I was interrupted.

Clarence came up, reporting, “Mrs. Hemul called and begged you to come to school. She seemed to sense that someone at the school cast spells this morning, and it highly disturbed her.”

I almost threw a wrench at him. Could I have some personal time off? Which of us was the town’s sheriff? Who was the head of Mihandrov’s NZAMIPS? A unit of combat mages was grazing in the town, but he called for help a poor student on a business trip, a student who didn’t even have a degree in magic!

But Lyuchik was at the school. I sighed and went to wash my hands off grease.

On the way to the school I was planning to tell the directrix all I thought of her. She hadn’t known the words I was about to say! I had called her yesterday, but she discouraged me from coming, hinting that she did not want to provoke Fox. And now everything seemed okay with her “boyfriend”. Just when I was finally back to doing interesting things, he was readying his excuses! I hated that!

My self-control thinned completely. Now I understood why Coordinator Axel did not want to send his people here; Claymore with his mates would lynch him after such a trip. Satal would neigh at me when I came back “well-rested”. However, I was ready to solve the problem with Satal in three hours. Very interesting grass grew on the flowerbeds at the school; the master of poisons, Tiranidos, would hang himself in envy. A full herbarium from “Toxicology”, no doubt. I have to admit, Milky Widow blooms beautifully and looks great in the ridges, but, in my opinion, the gardener should think a bit more on his selection of species before planting them. There were children all around! I already dried out enough plants to fill half of my suitcase with interesting roots and flowers, and the thought of Satal’s surprise when he learned what he was dying from brought my good mood back.

Do not believe the intuition of practicing magicians, no matter what people say about it. My gaze caught a narrow leaf with a distinctive silky sheen, because all the time I was searching for something like that. Not trusting my luck, I picked up the leaf and began looking around in search of the rest of the plant. Alas! Nothing like that grew on the nearby lawns, and a measly half a gram serving was obviously not enough for my goal. I was about to search the silage pit with the mowed grass. But the path where I found the treasure led to the back kitchen door instead of a park or a greenhouse. The cooks were busy with all their might and main: lunchtime was fast approaching. Not feeling any unrest in my soul, I mentally connected these three concepts: grass, food, poison. I shook the grass off my hands and wanted to go further on my business, but then a sense of duty prevailed. Perhaps that was nonsense, but the maniac that killed nine people was still at the school, and the artisans are like maniacs, in my opinion…