The Last American Wizard (22 page)

“I’m actually fairly happy about the whole thing,” the ghost said. “Magic was a hobby of mine before my death. I always wanted to be able to break the story that magic was real but there was never any hard evidence. This morning, I was pleased to see it working–although I could have done without the costume. I was sure that the military had some sort of black ops group dealing with the supernatural, but all the evidence was completely hashed by the psychos who actually wrote about it. One guy even wrote that there was some sort of manual–”

“–Manual S-O slash O-T-N.” Ace said. “Special Operations / Other Than
Normal.”

Ringwald and Steve stared at her for a second. Steve said, “I thought you couldn’t hear
us.”

“You thought I was shut down by a badly cast third-level No-see-um spell?” Ace sniffed. “I’ve got two sigils tattooed on my
butt alone that can break a wimpy spell like that and a runic knife that’s been begging me non-stop to let her seek out and kill the person who cast
it.”

Ringwald smiled. “Not much use in my case, I’m afraid.”

“You really think that all deaths are the same?” She shook her head. “Oh, you have so very much to
learn.”

Ringwald’s smile
faded.

“Please don’t re-kill him, at least not right now,” Steve pleaded. “He’s given us a damn good overview of the state of play around
town.”

Ace nodded agreement and Steve continued. “OK, Buddy, we know that the Illuminati were involved in this so finding their headquarters would probably be a good start. Any
ideas?”

Ringwald said. “Well, their clubhouse is up on 16th and
X.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s an old joke. Washington doesn’t have a J Street nor are there X, Y, and Z
Streets.”

Ringwald smiled smugly. “Well, if you’re going to take that sort of shortsighted attitude, I guess you’ll never find an underground organization like the
Illuminati.”

Steve’s eye was caught by maps flickering across Send Money’s screen–everything from L’Enfant’s original 1791 plan to Metrobus routes and satellite images. Suddenly, Send Money
began playing U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” while using the F-16 Flight Simulator built into Google Earth to do a barrel roll down 16
th
Street.

“Stop showing off,” Ace growled. “Just show us what you found.”

As the jet crossed Florida Avenue, the nose pointed to the sky in a straight climb. At about 10,000 feet, Send Money did a hammer-turn, cartwheeled 180 degrees, and headed straight down. Just before the camera viewpoint hit the ground, he switched to a slideshow of pictures of water flowing down a long, formal
cascade ending in a round pool, accompanied by a delicate pastoral passage from
Tristan and
Isolde.

“Of course, Meridian Hill Park,” Ace said.
“Formerly Malcolm X Park. It’s on the axis from the Washington Monument through the Alabaster Palace, and it’s where the American Prime Meridian and the Appalachian fall line intersect. It’s probably got more ley line power than anywhere else in the city. And it’s where X Street would have been if it
existed.”

“Underground?” Steve commented. “This city is a swamp–it’s hard to believe that they could excavate a proper villain’s lair in a sea of
mud.”

Ace shook her head. “That’s the whole point of the fall line. It’s where the swampy and soft land of the coastal plain suddenly rises a hundred feet to the solid stone of the Appalachian Plateau. My
guess
is
that
Meridian
Hill
is
sitting
on
a
solid
piece
of
white quartz–or ‘white flint’–which is where the name of White Flint Mall came
from.”

“Before it
closed.”

“Before it closed,” Ace agreed. “Anyway, it all fits right into the occult mindset that runs from the Illuminati through the New Thought Movement, the Theosophists, the Golden Dawn, and all the other social clubs for peculiar
people.”

“I’d say that makes our next step fairly obvious,” Steve said. “We go up to Meridian Hill Park and gently release Weishaupt and company from the eternal cycle of
suffering.”

“Right, we waste the bastards,” Ace said as she began to check her weapons.
Again.

Ringwald smiled at her. “I admire the way you cut right through all this ontological crap and go directly to the
point.”

“It is one of her best talents,” Steve
said.

The jukebox, which had about twenty years of dust on it, suddenly came to
life.

“Remember that even if we defeat the Illuminati, it’s almost certainly only a beginning,” Barnaby said through its speakers. If the bartender or his customers heard any sound from the ancient machine, they gave no sign of it. “Our new adiabatics–you know, the D-Waves from Canada–are claiming that their quantum annealing algorithms indicate several alternative universes where either the Illuminati were all killed by the Church or they never developed Hermes Trismegistus’s immortality potion and, yet, yesterday’s events still
occurred.”

“We really need to find a better label than ‘yesterday’s events,’” Steve said. “‘9/11’ is clear and simple. So are ‘Hiroshima’ or ‘the
Holocaust.’”

Send Money’s screen
flashed.

“No. None of your Chinese mysticism,” Steve objected. “We need–”

“It’s not Chinese.” Barnaby interrupted. “It’s a term from chaos theory. Major disruptions in extremely complex or chaotic systems–from earthquakes to financial market crashes–have been named ‘dragonkings.’ They replaced the concept of ‘black swans,’ which were things no one thought could happen, so the statisticians aren’t to blame for not seeing
them.”

“My head is about to explode.” Steve put his head in his hands. “OK, I’ll buy ‘Day of the Dragonking,’ but the first person who mentions swans of any color is risking a horrible
death.”

When he brought his head up, Steve looked around the small establishment and–for the first time–noticed that all the patrons
had left and back of the bartender could just be seen through the closing back door. Before he could say anything, Send Money began playing
Danger Zone
at top volume and the plate glass window behind Steve
exploded.

Again, Steve saw a shimmer in the air as his shield snapped into existence, carving a safe space in the storm of broken glass. Ringwald looked up and said, “Crap. Ogres. I don’t do ogres.” He immediately proceeded to disappear–not by becoming invisible but by turning sideways to all three of the usual
dimensions.

Steve thought he might have thrown up if he’d had the time. Ace shouted, “Secure the
phone.”

She eeled up from her seat, planted a foot on the table, and did a front flip over Steve’s head, landing in the middle of the aisle. Steve obediently clipped Send Money to his belt and twisted around.

The front windows of the Tune Inn were gone–blasted inward in a cloud of glass shards, wooden splinters, and smoke. “Shit,” he said. “It smells like bananas. What the hell smells like
bananas?”

“Dynamite,” Ace said without turning her head. “Didn’t your parents teach you
anything?”

There were five creatures coming in through the gaping hole that was once a window. Dressed in little more than loincloths,
they had bright red skin, grotesque features, bulging muscles, and each one was carrying a long metal club studded with sharp points. Steve decided that the clubs looked like supersized corn dogs with hellacious armor
coating.

“These guys from the Masons?” Steve asked as he squirmed out of the booth and stood behind
Ace.

“Nope,” she answered without taking her eyes off the biggest of the group. He had stepped in front of the others and was slamming his club into his hand and grinning. Considering that the metal weapon had to weigh forty or fifty pounds, Steve was impressed with the ease with which he handled
it.

“Typically, Masons go for European or Middle Eastern monsters. These are
oni
, Japanese ogres. You’d have recognized them if you had the slightest interest in manga, anime, or any other aspects of global
culture.”

“They don’t look cultured to me,” Steve
said.

“No, they do not,” Ace said. “Theoretically, Ogres are what you get when military types take on an Earth aspect. I’d bet these were well-trained mercenaries before the dragonking. A mixed hand of Wands and Pentacles, most likely. The guy in front looks like royalty at least, if not one of the Major
Arcana.”

The leader said something but it came out as an indecipherable mumble. Apparently, he was still getting used to the foot-long tusks that emerged from his upper lip. He coughed, concentrated, and spoke very slowly. “You are Ace of Swords?”

“Try me and find out,” Ace
responded.

Separating each word, the
oni
said, “My name is Richard Stengel. Formerly, captain of First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, now Senior Vice-President of Clay and Dosh Personal Security. My orders are to ‘discard’ the Ace of Swords while my men are eliminating that chump hiding behind
you.”

“Yes, he is a bit of a chump,” Ace agreed. “However, he’s my assigned chump and no one is going to eliminate him. I’m
guessing that that oversized chopstick you’re holding means you think you’re the Ace of
Wands.”

“I’m afraid that’s incorrect, ma’am,” the demon said. “This is a sacred
kanabō
but only those trained in the top levels of the more esoteric martial arts have even seen a real one. I am currently the Ace of
Pentacles.”

“Ah, a mercenary. Well, let’s get it on. I consistently beat you red bastards in Mortal Kombat and I’m looking forward to repeating the experience in real
life.”

“I’m afraid you will find real combat just as mortal as a child’s–”

“Hey, can I ask a favor?” Ace was standing casually, hands on her
hips.

“What?” Stengel
asked.

“I was just wondering if you could send me a text when you’ve finished talking. That way we could go ahead and get some work done or take a nap or something useful and then come back when you’re ready to
fight.”

If possible, Stengel’s brilliant crimson complexion got even redder and he roared something that might have been a curse but was completely garbled by the tusks. Ace pulled her backup pistol, but before she could fire, Stengel made the same flicking motion that the Illuminati had used and the weapon flew off to the
right.

Steve was surprised to see the pistol slow, stop, and rocket back to Ace’s hand. She snapped off a couple of blue lightning bolts and clipped one of the small horns off her opponent’s head before the muzzle completed its mystic distortion and closed completely. She looked at it wistfully, gave it a kiss, and then undid the elastic band that held it to her wrist, and threw it
away.

“I hate magic. That pistol was a family heirloom. My grandmother got it when she worked with the French Resistance, gave it to Mom when she made Top Sergeant, and Mom passed it on to me when I got into BUDS. Steve, I might be tied up for a couple of seconds here, so you might want to work out something for the other
goons.”

Ace turned back to the big ogre, cracked the bones in her neck to loosen up, and said, “OK, tall, red, and ugly, let’s
dance.”

The four other
oni
were smaller–well, at least they weren’t as enormous as Stengel–but they were still considerably bigger than a normal human and they had what appeared to be the standard
oni
quota of extra-large teeth, large metal clubs, and exceptionally irritated expressions. At the moment, all four were spreading out and moving toward him through the rubble that was once the Tune Inn.

Steve knew that he should be concentrating on the Fool card, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Ace. She’d said she was going to “dance” and that was the only word Steve could think of to
describe it. She was moving continuously with quick and sure steps. At the same time, an amazing assortment of knives,
grenades, extendable batons, and what looked like steel ballpoint pens were appearing and disappearing in her hands, dropping into one pocket, reappearing from another, and even sailing in precise arcs over her
head.

Stengel stopped and stared. “Do you still have magical
powers, Master Chief? My clients’ briefing said that you had lost them in the
Change.”

“Magic?” Ace smiled. “You don’t believe in magic, do you?”

“Are these illusions,
then?”

One of the smaller throwing knives flicked off her left hand and seemed to leap toward the monster of its own accord–sinking deep into his thigh. “I don’t know,” Ace said. “Did that feel like an illusion?”

Steve decided that Ace was going to be just fine on her own and started to bring the Fool’s card to the forefront of his mind. To his surprise he didn’t see what he expected: the slight and carefree youth carrying a flower. Instead, what came to his mind’s eye was an ancient card, creased and torn around the edges. The Fool was an older, rougher man, half shaven and dressed in rags and tatters. Now the bindle over his shoulder was definitely that of a thief and he carried a stout cudgel, not a flower, in his other
hand.

What caught Steve’s attention was the dog at the Fool’s feet. On the earlier card, it had been a tiny white thing, a lapdog frisking around the youth’s feet. On this card, it was clearly an older, meaner red dog and Steve had the definite feeling that it would
take a chunk out of the Fool’s ass if it got half a
chance.

“All in all,” Steve thought, “this looks like a far more useful animal.”

Once again, he
Studied
the
dog,

Listened
for his
bark,

Felt
the sharpness of his teeth,
and

Recognized
the iron determination deep inside the
animal.

An ear-splitting howl echoed through the remains of the Tune Inn, and a yellowish-golden hound, about as big as a pony with a set of fangs like a saber-tooth tiger, smashed into the
oni
on the far right. If it was magical, it certainly wasn’t ephemeral. It knocked the red-skinned demon over backwards then, locking its jaws deep into the monster’s throat, spun in a complete
circle.

Steve felt his stomach lurch as he watched the dog spit out a mouthful
of
crimson
flesh
and
leap
for
the
next
attacker.
The
oni
on the floor had dropped his club and was grasping his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of blood. The blood ran blue, Steve noted as gouts of it escaped the fighter’s fingers and sprayed on the walls and
windows.

The second fighter was prepared, warned by the passing of his comrade. The iron club swung up and caught the dog in the chest. Steve could definitely hear the crack of ribs as the animal was thrown up and over the fighter’s head, and worried that his paranormal pet was out of action. He immediately realized his mistake as the animal twisted in midair and was scrabbling for purchase on the loose rubble on the floor as soon as it hit the ground–flinging itself back into
battle.

The smartphone on his belt gave an earsplitting squeal and Steve managed to strengthen his shield just in time to deflect a downward blow from the first
oni
approaching on the left side
.
Without conscious thought, Steve had the golden spear gripped in one hand and a rose-colored buckler attached to the back of the other. When the massive club slid off the magical shield, it drove deep into the wooden floor where the metal spikes caught on the six-inch beams of the subfloor. While the red giant fought to free its club, Steve dropped the magic sphere, and jabbed hard at the warrior’s torso. A second club came sweeping over the ogre's shoulder and struck his spear aside as the last
oni
defended his companion.

The sheer power of the parry was immense. Steve’s wrist felt as if it had been ripped right off his arm. He thought that pretty much sucked but he did learn something from the experience: magic spears stuck to your palm no matter how hard they were hit. On the other hand, yea, he still had the spear, but his elbow—like his wrist—now felt as if it had just been twisted a full 180 degrees.

A quick shake confirmed that his arm was still functional and he brought his spear back into line and risked a glance over at Ace. If
she
was
moving
fast
before,
now
she
was
redefining
the
word.

Stengel was clearly both immensely strong and thoroughly trained in the use of the
kanabō.
The cudgel was in constant motion as he snapped it in strikes and parries as easily as Steve might have used an
umbrella.

Ace was simply never there when the
kanabō
struck. She was moving so fast in a semicircle in front of the immense figure that she actually blurred. Her weapons were still flickering in and out
of sight, and with every second that passed, more were sunk deep into strategic points on the red monster’s body. Deep slashes at hinge points like elbows and knees showed where she’d gone for a disabling blow to tendons, and one of Stengal’s feet was flat on the floor—where she’d managed to hamstring an
ankle.

“PAY ATTENTION, YOU IDIOT!” Barnaby screamed through the cell phone’s speaker, and Steve dropped to his knees to avoid a sweeping horizontal cut from the
oni
in front of him. Now his left hand and arm felt mangled but the buckler was enough to bounce the club over his head and he lunged forward in a frantic thrust that left him on the
floor.

It was a relief to find that terror and desperation worked since he’d clearly slept through Spearfighting 101. The golden spear slid completely through the ogre’s gut, and with a thought, Steve made it flatter and sharp-edged, and then yanked it down and sideways. Ropy blue intestines began to slip through the gash and the red monster dropped his club in order to use both hands in a vain effort to keep his insides from becoming outsides. He spun and almost knocked his companion over as he made a headlong dash to the
sidewalk.

For a second, Steve lay on the floor and wondered where a seven-foot bright-red monster went for medical treatment.
Grief
couldn’t possibly handle all the carnage that had to be going on with the city’s burgeoning monster population. Steve assumed that Emergency Room surgeons were just going to have to
improvise.

Then he tried to remember exactly what he’d done with the golden spear/sword and how he’d done it. He was still working on that when he heard an eerie shrieking noise and realized that it was the sound of wind whistling past spikes as the last
oni’s
club headed straight at his
head.