The Last American Wizard (23 page)

He rolled and the first blow missed, but the massive
kanabō
was instantly coming up and around as it if weighed no more than
a twig. He got his buckler up and managed to block an insanely powerful blow but the sheer impact left his arm limp at his side. He couldn’t tell if any bones were broken–he leaned toward the theory that his entire shoulder had been pulverized into powder–but the left side sure as hell wasn’t
working.

He made a mad scramble to his feet and began to back into the narrow corridor between the bar and the remaining booths. The
oni
followed, club slashing. Steve wasn’t trying to parry any more, just staying out of range. Booth after booth exploded into wooden splinters and fragments of Naugahyde. After the fourth, he didn’t have to look behind to know that there was only a step or two more before he hit the back
wall.

He desperately raced through everything he’d been told about the Fool. It was very clear to him that his nonexistent weapon skills weren’t going to keep him from looking like a tenderized steak, but there just might be some aspect of low cunning he hadn’t tried
yet.

Wait! What had Ace said at the beginning? The Fool was all suits and none. Pentacles were coins and discs.
Discs!

Without taking the time for a second thought, he flattened the golden spear to the size of an Ultimate Frisbee and, curling to his left to avoid another overhead swing, uncurled and flung the disc with all the power of his right arm. Somehow, he made the curved edges turn flat and sharp so that it looked like a cymbal as it flew towards the monster. At the last second, Steve had a flash of Dave Grohl and fine-tuned it into a Zildjian 20-inch A Custom EFX.

He was certain he’d missed. Even in college, he’d never been any good at the damn game. Sure enough, the flashing disc hit the sidewall with a crash, and the crimson demon turned to see where
it had
struck.

Except only his torso and shoulders turned. His face, a surprised expression growing in the startling blue eyes and the tusked mouth beginning to form an O, continued to face Steve. The massive body swayed once or twice and then fell forward. The
head bounced off and landed in the middle of the last unbroken table like some obscene centerpiece. The eyes slid down to the table and then up at
Steve.

“Sorry,” Steve said automatically. The
oni’s
eyes rolled up– probably in some final spasm–but it certainly looked as if even the monster thought saying “sorry” was pretty
lame.

He felt a warm and slightly wet touch on his hand and looked down to see the massive dog–now about half gold and half soaked in blue blood–licking his hand. As soon as it knew he was watching, it stepped back, turned sideways, and executed a doggy shake that sprayed the blood all over Steve. It was absolutely not accidental–the jaws opened and the tongue lolled out in an unmistakable canine smile before it vanished in a sparkle of rose light.

Steve leaned on the table that held the head of his opponent and tried to catch his breath. The first
oni
that the dog had hit was dead, lying in the center of a blue pool. The second could just be seen limping out the hole where the windows had been, still walking despite extensive claw marks, deep bite wounds, and several places on his back where red flesh was hanging on only by shreds of skin. The dog had certainly done its job. Steve was almost willing to forgive it the
shower.

In the center of the room, Stengel was gasping for breath and swaying. He held his club in his left hand because his right hand and arm were missing–cleanly cut at the shoulder joint. Ace was a mess–her shirt and cargo pants were slashed where the massive club had grazed her, and red streaks were mixing with the blue bloodstains that covered her clothes. She was, however, the picture of health compared to her immense opponent
.

The end of the battle came quickly. Ace took a couple of running steps and launched herself through the air, landing both boots directly on Stengal’s solar plexus and driving him onto his back with such force that his feet came up off the ground like a tight end being cut down by a
linebacker.

She ended up seated on his chest with one boot firmly on his left wrist. He made one twisting effort to throw her off and settled back in defeat. Ace began to carefully remove her weapons from where they were stuck in his crimson hide, wipe each of them on a clean cloth napkin she found under a tabletop, and put them back where they belonged. At least, Steve assumed she put them back. As far as he could see, they just glittered and disappeared.

“So,” she said. “I’d say there’s an opening for a new Ace of Pentacles.”

Stengel coughed up blue blood. “Yeah, I guess so. Nice
match, though.” His voice was much clearer now that both tusks had been broken off during the
fight.

“It was,” Ace said gravely. “You were damn good.”

“Tell me the truth, did you use magic?” he
asked.

“Nope. I really did lose all my mojo.” Ace concentrated on cleaning the last blood stains from the serrations on the back of a Marine tactical blade. “Prestidigitation. Stage magic. Now you see it”–she made the big blade spin and vanish–“and now you don’t. I kept getting you to look left when I was going right and vice versa. Had to have something to even up against that badass voodoo you had going.” She began picking throwing stars out of his
forehead.

“Well, it was a hell of a fight,” Stengel said. “I regret we can’t have a
rematch.”

“Hell, no.” Ace smiled. “I barely took you out this time. I’m not at all sure I could do it again. Why do you think I made sure you were going to die?
“

She paused to pull a star that was stuck in bone and then continued. “So, since you aren’t going to collect that next paycheck, how about telling me who hired
you?”

“No way, Chief.” A look of fear passed across the broad, red face. “I appreciate you being gracious and all, but being dead isn’t even going to slow those guys down if they find out I went all loose-lipped in the end. I mean, they pay well but they are extremely rigorous about
security.”

“So, we’re not talking about the
Illuminati?”

Stengel broke into a surprised laugh that turned into violent coughing and a lot of blood. Ace gently turned his head so he wouldn’t choke. When he could speak again, he said, “The Illuminati? Hell, no. There isn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to get me to work for those
fools.”

His breathing became more labored and Ace moved off his chest and knelt beside him to take back the last few weapons. After a moment, he continued. “Hey Chief. I’ve got a…friend over in Georgetown.”

“I’d be honored to carry a message for you, Captain,” Ace said.

“Thanks.” He broke off into another, longer spasm of coughing. When he finally caught his breath, Ace pulled a flask of water from somewhere, gave him a drink, and moistened the napkin
to
clean
some
of
the
blue
flecks
of
blood
and
lung
off
his lips. He nodded his thanks. “Look, I don’t owe the Illuminati anything. Their headquarters is up…” His voice
faltered.

“Up at Meridian Hill Park, I know,” Ace
said.

Stengel nodded and then struggled to continue. “Two things. One is…statue of Buchanan. Crappy president. It’s his only statue. But that’s
not…”

Ace folded the napkin and put the cleanest side on his forehead. “Shhh. We’ll find
it.”

“No.” The monster just breathed for a moment, gathering his strength. “No. The key is the
comedy…”

He couldn’t
continue.

Ace put a finger on his lips. “Stop. You have a message for someone. That’s more important. Tell me
that.”

She had to put her ear next to his lips and Steve couldn’t make out anything that was said. After a long couple of minutes, Ace leaned back, looked the monster in the eyes, and nodded. “Don’t worry, Captain. I promise I’ll deliver that message personally.”

Stengel’s entire body convulsed and slumped. After a second, Ace reached up and gently closed his
eyes.

Police sirens were approaching from both up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. Steve reflected that, as much as it might seem as if the entire world had transformed into a fairy tale overnight, the reality was that most of Washington was simply business as usual. In the real world, a brawl that destroyed a restaurant was soon followed by a large number of police. Apparently, that hadn’t
changed.

“If I might suggest, the back door would be better,” Barnaby said from the smartphone. “I’d do something to confuse their communications, but every cop in DC knows how to get to the Tune
Inn.”

“What have the police turned into in this hellish world?” Steve wondered.
“Robocops?”

Barnaby’s voice took on a pedantic tone. “The changes
depend on too many things to be universal and predictable. Each policeman’s individual personality, ethics, and politics–all these play into what they become. In fact, so many are solid and determined souls with a strong sense of mission, I can imagine a number of them are simply adapting to a new way of doing
business and going on much as they did
before.”

“Tell you what. If you two continue to discuss this, you’ll definitely have the opportunity to find out the answer,” Ace spoke over her shoulder as she went out the back door. “I’m willing to leave the nature of the average street cop to the
imagination.”

Steve followed her out the door. “Why would you worry about the police? You’re a SEAL, for heaven’s
sake.”

“Haven’t you ever thought about what the military police do?” They turned right and headed down C Street, not running but moving quickly. “They arrest people like me. Think about
that.”

Behind them, the sirens dopplered to a stop. He could hear barked orders, shouts of “Clear,” and a number of very loud repetitions of “What the
hell?”

There was a short period of silence and then a howl echoed from the Tune Inn. It was soon followed by a second and a third. All three sounds turned first into excited yelps and then into the steady baying of hounds following a scent
trail.

Three uniformed figures came out of the gas station on the corner of Pennsylvania and C Streets, running faster than he would have expected from anyone but rookies just out of the Academy. It wasn’t until they were less than a half block behind that he could make out their elongated canine muzzles, double-jointed legs, and sharp-pointed
ears.

“And then there would be the policemen who find that magic is a way to increase their natural speed, ferocity, and aptitude for pursuit.” Barnaby said
dryly.

Ace and Steve had only covered a single block and it was
clear that they were going to be surrounded within the next twenty or thirty yards. Since they weren’t going to get away, they stopped and turned to face
the…

“What are they called?” Steve wondered. “A squad? A
pack?”

“I don’t really care,” Ace said. “We have a problem.”

“Clearly,” Steve said, bent over in a vain attempt to catch his breath.

“No,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to fight them. I don’t hurt cops and I sure as hell won’t fight police
dogs.”

“Are you sure they aren’t wolves?” Steve asked hopefully. “Yes, I’m sure. They aren’t and I
won’t.”

Steve straightened up. “So, I take it the plan is to get picked up and waste time trying to explain the inexplicable. Won’t that get in the way of saving the world or
something?”

“No, y’all really don’t have time ta visit with these folks, and you sure ain’t gonna beat them in a race. I think all three of ‘em could blow out the lamp and be in bed before it gets dark.” Steve turned to see that Coyote was standing behind them in a space he would have sworn was empty a second
ago.

The demigod raised his voice and addressed the three policemen. “Hey, guys. Why don’t you slow down and let’s have a chat–dog to dog, as it
were.”

At first, it didn’t appear that Coyote’s words were even going to slow the three officers down. Then they skidded to a stop about
a yard away and stared over Steve’s left shoulder with varying expressions of alarm, apprehension, and amazement. Steve was not all that surprised when he turned again and saw the enormous
cadejo
trotting around the corner from 4th Street to stand behind them.

“I guess I should have said ‘dog to dog to dog-monster.’” Coyote chuckled. “Hey, Carlos, why don’t you show Ace and Steve what you’ve learned? It might help that cynocephalus on the left from making a real regrettable error with that service
revolver.”

“The cyno-what?” Steve asked, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Carlos shaking himself, a flapping racket that was like the noise a Labrador’s ears make when he shakes his
head.

Except this would have been a giant Labrador with about forty
ears. It was truly deafening and came accompanied by a cloud of dust and grit blown up off the
road.

Steve was forced to squint to keep flying debris out of his eyes but, when the sudden and extremely local tornado stopped, a young man with Hispanic features and elaborate colored tattoos that completely covered his torso stood behind them. He was wearing boots and jeans, probably borrowed from Coyote, and set about fastening the final pearl snaps on a western shirt. Steve wanted to ask how he managed to keep his clothes on through all those gyrations, but decided there would probably be time for that
later.

“There we go. OK, let’s do the introductions. I’m known as Hosteen to my friends–among whom I count these two here,” Coyote said, indicating Ace and Steve. “And this is Carlos
Cortada, a very nice young man who just recently has found that
he is a
cadejo–
which, as I’m sure y’all know, is the legendary hoofed dog of the Salvadorian
volcanoes.”

The faces of the three officers clearly indicated they had no clue what Coyote was talking
about.

“Now, I’m not quite sure what to call you guys. I mean, you are police, but saying ‘Hi, police’ is somewhat rude, and you’re not jackals, although there’s clearly a family resemblance to
Anubis.”

Coyote walked around the three officers and examined them from all sides—an activity that made them noticeably nervous. Finally, he snapped his fingers in
triumph.

“I got it, you’re
cynocephali
, which is just a fancy way of saying, ‘dog-headed.’ Back in the Middle Ages, your people had a damn good reputation as warriors. As a matter of fact, Saint Christopher was one. But ‘Hi Officer Cynocephali’ is damn near impossible to anyone to say, so why don’t y’all lose the extra teeth and just tell us your
names?”

The three looked at each other and then, with what appeared to be a bit of effort, morphed back into their human bodies. The one on the left, a tall black man who was clearly the oldest, stepped forward. “I’m Officer Mike Chubb, and these are Officers Stacy Grafton and Lyle Bautista. Mr. Hosteen, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but we need to take these two in. We believe they were involved in an incident up at the Tune Inn that practically knocked the whole place
down.”

“Well, unless the Inn has greatly changed from my last visit, knocking it down wouldn’t have taken too much effort,” Coyote said.

“Yes, sir, that is quite possibly accurate,” Chubb continued. “But there are two enormous red-skinned giants of some sort in there who are quite definitely deceased–‘butchered’ might be a better
word.”

Grafton, a young blonde woman with her hair wound into a tight bun, pointed at Ace. “From the amount of blood on your clothes –and I’ll accept that the red is yours, but there is a hell of a lot of that blue kind sprayed all over the Tune Inn–I’d say you are at the very least material witnesses if not the actual
perpetrators.”

“So, what are you going to charge them with?” Coyote asked. “First-degree monster slaughter? I’m not sure that’s a crime. Not yet, at any rate. Anyway, as I said, these two are old friends of mine, Steve Rowan and Ace Morningstar and in my various roles
as Magus and Lead Trail Dog, I’m gonna to have to insist that you let them go on their
way.”

A cough came from the smart phone clipped to Steve’s belt. Coyote nodded, “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. That cell phone over there contains the ghost of a young Chinese factory worker we call Send Money, and the voice of Barnaby, who is one of the smarter computers housed in the Puzzle Factory out at Fort
Meade.

“Nice to meet you,” Barnaby
said.

Chubb looked at his fellow patrolmen for confirmation and then shook his head. “This is all very interesting, but we’ve still
got to bring these two back and hold them for
questioning.”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Barnaby said. “Let’s see. You’re Michael Chubb, born in Upper Marlboro in 1985. Right? You entered the police academy straight out of college and… Hey, would you look at that. Your answers on the entrance exam are exactly the same as those of Audrey Chalmers–who, I believe, was sitting next to you. Um. Then there is Mr. Bautista… Wow, I have to congratulate you, sir. How do you manage two families on a policeman’s salary? Oh, wait. Oh, now I see. Ingenious, Mr. Bautista. Very ingenious for such a young man. Now, Ms. Grafton–”

“Stop,” the young woman broke in. “You don’t need to go any further. Just
stop.”

All three officers looked as if they might throw up at any moment. Coyote threw back his head and howled with
laughter.

Literally
howled.

When he had managed to bring his mirth to an occasional chuckle, he said, “Oh, man, if you could see your faces!” After wiping his eyes on a bandana he pulled from a back pocket, he continued. “Listen; let me make this real simple. These are Good Guys, and those cherry-colored folks on the floor of the Tune Inn were working for the Bad Guys. That’s just a fact. Another fact is that these two didn’t start the fight, although with the Ace of Swords in full battle mode and the Fool starting to pick up a thing or two, they surely finished it. Finally, in the new way of things, we’re all on the same side. Everyone has things they’d like to keep secret, and Barnaby, you make sure everything you find stays secret,
OK?

“Absolutely. If it’s not about national security, it’s none of my business.”

Coyote continued. “Now, you guys are going to end up howling at the same damn moon as Carlos here. Mainly because he’s the Ten of Pentacles, which is honesty, loyalty, community, and all that good
stuff.”

Chubb had finally recovered enough to ask, “What is all this bullshit about Aces and
Tens?”

“You mean that nice Police Chief of yours hasn’t issued orders for mandatory tarot training?” Coyote seemed disappointed. “I’ll talk to her about it. Trust me, without that, you will have no idea what’s going on in Magic City these
days.”

Steve said quietly, “You’ll have damn little idea what’s going on
regardless.”

Ace elbowed him in the
ribs.

“The important thing to remember is that magic is here and
it’s going to change most people,” Coyote continued. “Now, it generally makes you more of what you already were. You three were pretty good cops; I can tell from how magic gave you faster legs, quicker reflexes, better noses–all things that’ll help in your job.”

Coyote paused. “Speaking of noses, I’d advise just going without perfume or aftershave. You’re fine, ma’am, but the two of you men have to be getting some terrible headaches. Officer Chubb, I’d suggest kicking your Old Spice habit, and as for you, young man”–he pointed at Bautista–“no one over the age of twelve should be wearing Axe, whether they got magic powers or not.”

Stacy Grafton gave a snort of laughter and said, “I told you, Lyle. That crap should have an adult-proof cap.” The young Hispanic man
scowled.

Coyote smiled. “OK, that’s just one of the little things you need to learn. Magic don’t care which side of the law you’re on,
so you’re going to run into some bad actors with new abilities. From time to time, the best you can do just isn’t going to be enough, and you’ll be looking for some help. Now, Ace and Steve don’t mind being asked to bash a bad guy every once in a while.
Right?’

Steve just looked at Coyote and wondered if he’d gone completely insane. Ace nodded confidently and said, “Of course. I’m not prevented by
Posse Comitatus
anymore, so I’d be glad to lend a
hand.”

Stacey Grafton asked, “You’re
military?”

“Sure. Master Chief Petty Officer–DEVGRU.” Ace paused. “Or at least I was until the world
changed.”

Bautista said skeptically, “They don’t allow women on the SEAL
teams.”

“You are correct, sir. They don’t,” Ace said
shortly.