The Invitation (7 page)

“Wh-What happened?” he asked John.

“A small disagreement over the placement of our cars on the road.” Constantine sighed. His voice got serious. “They're still after us.”

“Are you sure it wasn't your driving?” Tim asked.

Constantine grimaced at him. “I wish it had been. The sooner we get to San Francisco, the happier I'll be.”

“Where are we now?” Tim asked, peering into the darkness around him. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

“In Southern California.”

Tim's mouth dropped open.
Wow. We seriously booked if we've made it all the way across the country in a single night.
Then he remembered his geography. San Francisco was in the north. And
California was a long skinny state. Their destination was still miles and miles away.

“Uh, we don't have a car anymore,” Tim pointed out. “What are we going to do?”

“Stick out our thumbs, walk, and hope.”

T
IM WAS TIRED, COLD,
and hungry. His feet hurt. They'd been walking along this highway for ages. He shivered. Wasn't California supposed to be warm?

The few cars that passed kept going. Eyeing John's battered trench coat and dangling cigarette, and his own jeans and grimy T-shirt, it occurred to him that only a stark-raving loony would pick them up. And then where would they be?

“Can't you do something?” Tim asked.

“Like what?” John replied.

“I dunno…‘magic' things along.”

“Doesn't work that way,” John said. “At least,
I
don't work that way.”

“Then how
does
it work?” Tim grumbled. “Aren't you supposed to be teaching me stuff?”

“You think you're not learning?”

Tim rolled his eyes. That wasn't an answer. He watched Yo-yo fly ahead and land on a tree branch and thought about the kind of magic that made Yo-yo. Reading cards was all well and good, but it wasn't the kind of magic that Merlin had. The kind he wanted.

“I want to—” Tim began.

“Catch that ride?” John cut him off.

Sure enough, a car had pulled to a stop up ahead of them.

“Quick!” Tim said, bounding forward. “Before he changes his mind!” He dashed to the car, Yo-yo flying behind him.

The driver had rolled down his window. A man in his forties stuck his head out. He was wearing conservative glasses, a long-sleeve shirt, and a sweater vest. “Need a ride?” he asked.

Tim had been wishing for a ride, but now that there was one in front of him, he felt uncertain. “Only if you aren't a weirdo trying to kill us,” he blurted.

The guy laughed. “You're British, right?” he asked, obviously noting his accent.

Tim nodded. What did that have to do with anything?

“You Brits have such an offbeat sense of humor,” he said. “Never fails to crack me up.”

John had by now joined Tim. “Are we getting in?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Tim decided. With John along, he figured it was okay to accept the ride. He lifted his hand and Yo-yo landed on it.

“The bird too?” the driver asked.

“The bird too,” Tim replied.

John sat up front next to the driver, while Tim sprawled across the backseat. Yo-yo perched behind John, balancing on the back of his seat. The car drove off.

“You tourists?” the driver asked.

“You might say that. I'm John Constantine.” He jerked his head toward the backseat. “And this is Tim.”

“Hi,” Tim said, observing that the man was a much better driver than John. He started to relax. The man reminded him of American professors on television. “And the owl's name is Yo-yo.” Yo-yo ducked his head as if saying hello.

“I'm Terrence Thirteen,” the man said, introducing himself. “Dr. Terry Thirteen.”

“The ghost-breaker?” John asked.

“You've heard of me?” Dr. Thirteen smiled.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Read your book. Funny meeting you like this.”

Tim sat up and rested his elbows on the front
seat rest, leaning between the two men. Could John have somehow arranged this meeting? He didn't think Constantine believed much in coincidence. He wondered what the man's book was about. And if Thirteen was his real name.

The sky was brightening slightly, but it was still dark. “Do you have an interest in the subject?” Dr. Thirteen asked John as he navigated through the ground fog that now surrounded them.

“Well, Tim here is sort of interested in magic. You must have firm opinions on the subject.”

Dr. Thirteen laughed. “You could say that.”

“Why?” Tim asked. “What do you know about magic?”

“Well, Tim, I've been investigating the occult for fifteen years now. You know, magic, spooks, witch cults. You might call me a professional debunker.”

“You mean you prove that they're fake?” This surprised Tim. He gave John a quick glance. What did he think of this?

“In fifteen years I haven't seen one thing that didn't have a rational explanation. Either it was a hoax, or a fraud, or—most often—people wanting so much to believe in powerful forces that they'd convinced themselves of the existence of magic. They'd take simple coincidence or delusion as
proof of their superstitions.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Fifteen years,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “That's longer than I've been alive.”

Dr. Thirteen grinned at Tim in the rearview mirror. “Yes, Tim. With all that experience, I think I can say with some certainty that if magic existed, I would have found some evidence of it by now. And I haven't.”

Tim nodded slowly. Yesterday, he would have immediately agreed with Dr. Thirteen. But now…well, everything was different now.

Tim fell asleep for a while, and when he awoke, the sun had risen. He looked out the window and saw something he recognized—the Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco already! Terry gave them a short tour—pointing out the old island prison of Alcatraz, the marina where yachts and house boats bobbed gently in the bay, and the Ghirardelli chocolate factory. He let them out at the Fisherman's Wharf turnaround. The whole area smelled strongly of fish and seaweed, and the calls of the seagulls seemed to make Yo-yo nervous. He dug his talons deeper into Tim's shoulder.

“Magic is a nice hobby if you're planning to entertain at a party,” Dr. Thirteen told Tim, leaning out of his window. “But otherwise, don't
waste your time on it.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Tim said.

Dr. Thirteen drove off. Tim watched him go, wondering how John would react to all that they'd heard.

“That bloke,” John said. “He doesn't believe in magic at all. And he's right.”

“What?” Tim's head snapped up so fast it startled Yo-yo, who took off into the air. “What do you mean, he's right?”

Constantine shrugged. “Magic doesn't exist. For him.”

A cable car ground to a stop, and Tim and John helped the conductor and several prospective passengers turn it around, and then hopped aboard. Yo-yo flew alongside them. At this hour of the morning, with the sun just rising, the trolley was nearly empty.

“I don't understand,” Tim said.

“You have to
choose
it, you see,” John explained. He gave Tim a squinty, sidelong look. Tim wondered if John ever looked at anything straight on. “That's what we're offering you. The choice. If you don't want magic, you'll never see it again. You'll live in a rational world in which everything can be explained.”

That doesn't sound so bad
, Tim thought. What
was John trying to tell him? Or was he trying to tell him anything at all? It was hard to figure out.

“This is us,” John said after they'd ridden awhile. He rang the bell and gracefully stepped off the cable car before it had come to a full stop. Tim scrambled after him.
The guy lopes along like a panther
, he thought.

“But if you choose it,” John continued, as if he'd never stopped speaking, “well, it's like stepping off the sidewalk into the street. The world still looks the same on the surface, but you can be hit by a truck at any second. That's magic.”

“But that sounds dangerous. Why would I want to do that?” Tim asked.

“I guess some people prefer life in the fast lane. But I'm not the one deciding. You are.”

They walked along in near silence again. The only sound was the flapping of Yo-yo's wings. Then another sound: Tim's stomach growled. Loudly. How embarrassing. Tim slapped his hand over his stomach.

“You can have breakfast at our next port of call. And sanctuary too, with any luck,” John promised with a grin.

“Are we dropping in unexpectedly on another one of your friends?” Tim asked.

“As it happens, yes.”

“Oh, and that worked so well with Madame Xanadu,” Tim scoffed. “No thanks.”

“Zatanna isn't anything like Madame X,” John said.

“Zatanna?” Tim repeated. His eyes widened as he looked up at John. “Zatanna the lady magician?”

“The very same,” John replied.

“I've seen her on TV! She's brilliant! You know her?”

John smiled. “That's the first time you've actually sounded excited since we started this little journey,” he said. “I've finally managed to impress you.”

“Wait a minute,” Tim stopped, suddenly anxious.

John gave him a quizzical look. “What are you worrying about now?”

“Well, it's just that, judging by the way things have gone so far, she's probably a loon who hates you.”

“Nah, me and Zatanna go way back.”

“Sure. I expect you probably pinched her best trick or something.”

“This is her house,” John said, ignoring Tim's comment. They were in a neighborhood of brightly painted houses, all colors of candy. He led Tim up the walk of a pink house with blue shutters. Large
rosebushes lined the path.

Tim followed reluctantly. He admired Zatanna, and he wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to discover that the real person wasn't quite as cool as the person he'd seen on TV. And he didn't want to get on her bad side by showing up at dawn
without
an invitation and
with
John Constantine. Even Yo-yo seemed hesitant. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

John gave him a wicked grin. “What's the matter, kid, don't you trust me?” He rang the doorbell.

“At least we're not just barging in this time,” Tim muttered. “She can slam the door in our faces if she wants.”

A tall, dark-haired woman wearing a big T-shirt and leggings opened the door. She looked sleepy.

She took a minute to focus, then a huge grin spread across her face. “John? John Constantine! I can't believe it's you!” She threw her arms around him, gripping him in a great bear hug. “What brings you to San Francisco?”

“Hey, Zatanna.”

Is that relief in his voice?
Tim wondered.
It seemed John hadn't been quite as sure of his reception as he'd pretended.

Zatanna released John and gave his arm a playful smack. “What has it been—two years?” She grinned at Tim. “So who's your buddy?”

Zatanna looked friendly, Tim observed. And a lot more normal than Madame X. She was a pretty woman, a little younger than John. She reminded Tim of a grown-up Molly.

“I'm Tim,” he said. “Timothy,” he corrected himself. Timothy sounded more grown-up. “Timothy Hunter. I saw you on Jonathan Ross.”

Zatanna's brow furrowed, then her eyes showed that she remembered who Jonathan Ross was. “Oh right! Britain's answer to Letterman. That was fun. Come on in, you two.”

Zatanna ushered them into her house. The hallway was painted a rosy pink, and wooden pegs held jackets, shoulder bags, hats, and colorful scarves. She brought them into a bright living room—sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, filling the room with light. Flower pots filled all the windows, and there were large plants nearly as big as trees in the corners. It was like walking into a garden. Yo-yo immediately made himself at home on the windowsill.

“It's so sunny here!” Tim blurted, feeling warmed by the light. After the gloom of London and the dark night of hitchhiking, Zatanna's living
room was dazzling. Still, it seemed foolish to say out loud, and Tim flushed.

“Yeah, California is famous for it,” Zatanna said. She didn't seem to take any notice of Tim's embarrassment. “Of course, San Francisco gets its share of rain and fog. That should make you feel right at home.” She flopped onto a large futon that was covered with embroidered pillows.

“So Tim,” she said, patting the spot on the couch beside her. Tim crossed to her and sat down. “What are you doing with my off-white knight in not-so-shining armor?” She gave John a mischievous grin. Tim could tell she enjoyed teasing John, and that he liked it. She seemed to be an equal match for Constantine.

John leaned against a bookshelf and waved a fern frond away from his face. “Tim has the potential to be the greatest magician that the modern world has ever seen. So me, Doc Occult, and the Stranger, along with the nut from Boston—”

“Who?”

“He calls himself Mister E.”

“Oh, right. Him.” She sounded dismissive, as if she didn't think much of Mister E. Tim tucked that bit of info away for future reference.

“Well, we got together and we're showing him stuff,” John explained. “The idea being that he learns enough about the world of magic to decide
whether that's what he wants from life or not.”

Tim picked up a pillow and set it across his lap. He stared down at it, as if the embroidered flowers were the most fascinating things he'd ever seen.

There it was, then. All laid out. These four men—the “Trenchcoat Brigade,” as Constantine called them—sought him out because he really and truly could become powerful. The
most
powerful. Bigger than Merlin even. But it was up to him to decide if that's what he wanted. Well, why wouldn't he?

“Sounds like fun,” Zatanna said.

“Only trouble is, people are trying to kill him,” John told her. “We're trying to find somewhere to hide that's safe, until the whole thing blows over.”

Oh yeah
. Tim remembered the part about people wanting to kill him. That put a damper on everything.
But if I'm so powerful,
he thought,
can't I protect myself from my enemies?
Though he supposed that if he could, they would have shown him how already.

“Why don't you guys stay here!” Zatanna said. She put a hand on Tim's arm. “I'd be delighted to have you.”

Tim nodded a thank-you but couldn't quite meet her friendly smile.
What if it doesn't blow
over?
Tim worried. Would he have to stay in hiding forever?