Wilder Mage (2 page)

“Oh, my dear,” the old gentleman said. His voice quivered. “How did you manage to find it in the dark?”

“Picked it up after you got to your feet,” Sable said.

She spread her hands wide and shook her head when he suggested a reward.

“At least give me your name,” he said.

She shook her head without replying and walked into the darkness.

Her heart thumped. Magic. Someone had used their talent close by her, someone in the crowd. She fisted her hands as she walked. The gathered energy released by the unknown mage seemed tiny. Maybe she could slip away.

In the shadows of the building, Sable found the concrete bench where she had left her large denim travel bag. Rumpled and dingy from many unintended journeys, the heavy material could take a beating. Sable sat on the cool bench and gave in to the fatigue, just for a moment, and felt again the pang of missing the concert. But listening to the reverberations and bass of the band through the walls of the auditorium seemed nearly good enough. Especially since cash wasn’t for extravagances.

Nothing wrong with second best anyway.

Sable stood and slung the bag over one shoulder. Time to move. No doubt, some of those good folks had called the cops, and she did not want to answer questions.

And the magic worker was out there, blending with the crowd, probably waiting for her to mess up.

The sound of distant thunder rolled over her, and she glanced at the night sky but saw no clouds. The stars glimmered fitfully beyond the streetlights. Ah, well, she needed to find someplace out of the night air anyway, rain or no rain. She set off for the overpass she had scouted earlier. She slipped past gyrating teens bent on imitating the band with air guitars, their strained, grimacing faces cast in ecstasy.

She replayed the scene in her mind as she trotted down the sidewalk—the old man as he hit the ground, the laugh of the greasy creep holding the watch. And the dark blue shirt of the man standing between her and the thug, his back to her, arms spread wide, palms forward. She had had no other impressions of the tall, broad-shouldered man, but felt relief that someone would help the poor old guy. Instead, the young man moved away from the victim, as if he didn’t want to get involved. That thought was enough to start her emotions boiling again.

When the flick of magic had shivered through the air, her stomach had roiled, but she’d forced her attention on the old man, ignoring the curses and grunts of the four men exercising their testosterone. She had to survive, and running away blindly was sure to get the magic maker’s attention.

Sable hoped the blue-shirted man wasn’t hurt too badly. A little, yeah. Just a little—enough to sting. Maybe a pop to the mouth or, even better, a broken nose.

She grumbled as she trotted down the empty street. Leaving an old man to fend for himself deserved a good hard smack. At least it would make her feel better.

What a pathetic wuss for turning his back like that.

Walking faster, she caught sight of the dark mouth of the concrete overpass just as another rumble of thunder warned her of the closing storm. Others had already claimed it as their shelter. Several pairs of eyes narrowed as she slipped under the concrete ledge and paused. With a spitting hiss, a large cat shot out from a dry patch of leaves, followed by four smaller versions of itself.

“Oh, hey, I don’t mind sharing,” she said to the vanished forms.

When there was no response, Sable shrugged and eyed the leaves for herself. The bed was still warm.

Crap, no way around it. I need to find some work tomorrow, no matter what, and make some money. Living like this isn’t human.

Sable laughed bitterly, then yawned and squirmed to find a comfortable position. A smell of warm cat and oak leaves rose, earthy and strangely comforting. She laid her head on the crook of her arm and her eyes drifted shut.

As she slept, a pair of violet-blue eyes shone in the night and hesitantly crept closer.

“Got it,” the man said, holding the ring up for the others to see. “Got the tissue sample.”

Chapter Two

J
ustus’s first concern was for his aged mother. She lived alone some distance from the shop he owned. Driving to her small home from the auditorium’s parking lot was a heart-in-the-throat trip, dodging tumbled light posts and emergency vehicles. The pickup hit the curb in front of her house with a tooth-chipping stop, and Justus was out of the cab before the vehicle could rebound. His headlong rush slowed when he saw her on the porch with a broom and a smile, completely unfazed. Nothing seemed to bother her—not the late hour, or her faintly askew front door, or the new crack in the living room window. Her concern was more for him. Or maybe for the toppled gazing ball. It had shattered into many pieces of turquoise-blue glass. Justus talked to her of the damage to the city while dropping the shards into a metal trash bin.

He stayed with her that night but, in the early morning, knew he could not put it off. Time to screw up his courage and check the damage at the antique shop.

“You be good now,” Justus said sternly, pointing his finger at her. “Don’t be trying to do too much, or I’ll come back and give you what for.”

“Yeah, yeah. You and who else?” his mother, Raissa, said. She rolled her eyes and pushed him out the door. “Get to your shop. I bet you have a lot more problems there than I do here.”

“Oh, Emmett and Maggie will be there.” He grimaced as he thought of the McIntyres. The aged couple always tried to do too much. “You’re right, I’d better hurry.”

“Maggie isn’t as old as I am, but that arthritis is a killer on joints.”

Justus kissed his mother’s soft cheek, which smelled of lilacs and soap, and walked to his pickup. He waved as he slid into the cab. She stared intently, as if she had forgotten how to smile, then her face creased into laugh lines.

Justus’s spirits lifted when he turned onto the familiar tree-lined street and at first saw little damage. But the scattered glass covering the walk in front of his shop sank his optimism. Justus looked up and clenched his teeth when he saw the broken windows to his apartment and the curtains waving in the breeze.

Later. When there were no witnesses.

Dust hung in the air as Justus crunched through the glass on the walk, eased through the open door, and groaned at the damage. The scent struck him first: the smell of alcohol. Why did it have to be the rare bottles of cognac that lay weeping on the old mahogany floor? Why couldn’t it have been the blackberry wine?

“Damn it,” Justus said, louder than he’d intended.

“Justus, is that you?” Maggie called out. She wobbled out of the back storage room, dragging the black garbage bag along the floor. Her knobby hand gripped the pull-strings. “Thought you’d be in soon. Your mom okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, grouchy as ever. But”—he waved his hand—“this is a mess.”

“Oh, do you think?” Maggie said, huffing. “It’s worse in the back and in the antiques. Not much we can save, I’m afraid.”

Her husband, Emmett, appeared in the doorway of the antique section of the shop with a broom. He leaned it against the archway and went to his wife.

“Here, now, I’ll do that.” He took the bag and steered her to a chair.

She sat down and brushed strands of her damp, curly gray hair out of her face.

“Thanks, sweetie. Sometimes, I’m glad I married you,” Maggie said.

Emmett’s grin lightened his aged face. “Well, reckon better late than never,” he said.

Maggie patted his arm and chuckled. Then she flipped an arthritic hand to the back storage room. “There’s more broken than not, Justus. Emmett might have to cook up all that steak in a hurry if the power doesn’t come on soon. The freezer won’t keep that stuff cold much longer.”

Emmett frowned. Without speaking, he went out the back door and the lid of the smoker banged open.

“Sounds like he’s starting now,” Justus said. He began running water into a mop bucket from the supply closet by the bar. “No matter what, we’ll have a crowd for noon, so it’ll work out. I’m not going to worry about it.”

“Aren’t you going to check the antiques?”

Justus grimaced and shook his head. He slapped a wet mop onto the brown glass fragments, pushing them and the sad remnants of the cognac into a pile. “I thought about it, but…”

“Couldn’t take it?”

He shook his head without answering, steeled his courage, and walked to the antique wing of his shop.

Emmett appeared at the back door, and a waft of smoke came in with him. “I piled up some of that broken stuff in the antique wing, but there’s a lotta glass. You want I should do some more?” he said.

“Nah, Emmett, give it up for now. No use worrying about it until later. Stay with the smoker, and I’ll get the tables ready for noon.”

Relief creased Emmett’s face into furrows. He escaped into the back yard.

The H-shaped building had one wing dedicated to the bar, where Justus offered food and drink. The other wing was his antique shop. A long connecting room held the register, the entrance, and the back door leading to the barbecue.

Justus stood at the arched doorway to the antiques and groaned. Bits of glass littered the floor, a mixture of toppled shelving, china tea sets, figurines, and pottery. Decisions, decisions; what to sell and what to trash. First glance told him the dumpster would get the majority.

On the bar side of his shop, the touchscreen games on the mahogany countertop were undamaged. The antique mirror and glass shelving had survived with nary a crack. But the stemware and many of the steins lay mingled with the fragrant remnants of the liquor. Why the Fates chose the bottles of cognac and not the fifteen-dollar wine was a cruel mystery.

Justus stood a moment longer with his hands on his hips, viewing the damage. He gritted his teeth and, like Emmett, retreated in the face of an overwhelming opponent, away from the mess and back to the bar. How convenient it would be to use magic to clean up the mess. But objects moving of their own accord tended to upset people.

Instead, he used the old-fashioned method and employed mop and muscle. Maggie helped, but her stiff ballet of pain slowed her movements.

He studied her pained progression, then slipped a hand under her elbow, as if to steady her. With his touch, the fixed magic from his ward stone folded onto her. Unconsciously, she sighed and moved with increased vigor.

The elements of Air and Fire soothed her joints. Air to cradle and support her weight, Fire to add warmth. She felt less pain, and the slow, aching dance eased into movement that was more fluid.

Discovery was the problem. Working small amounts of fixed magic left no trace, the signature undetected unless another mage stood within a few feet of him. The stroke of his fingers gave her a few hours of relief from the dull ache of her arthritis. It was worth the risk.

Fixed magic was the infusion of elements onto an object. Gathering those elements from the surrounding magic left a signature any mage could read, a trace of the power used to pull the elements in and then fix them to an article. When he drew large amounts of magic from the phantasms swirling around him, adepts from miles around would notice and the Imperium would send its wizards to check out the use of “wilder” magic. His life always got interesting for a while after that. Using the fixed magic of the ward stone threw no signature, as long as he used it with care. Safer than using gathered magic, but not as potent as the wild streams that spiraled around the unsuspecting people in glittering trails.

With his use of his talent came responsibility, to himself and to his friends. For now, he had done all he could for Maggie.

Emmett made regular trips to the cooking hood. Soon, the smell of the apple wood and cooking beef enveloped the shop, and the morning passed quickly. With a last inspection, Justus wiped the round tables and viewed the eatery. He edged to the window and smiled slightly when he saw Maggie engrossed in a laughing conversation with her husband. A haze of fragrant smoke enveloped them as she gestured and Emmett turned the meat on the grill. For the moment, Justus was alone.

With one eye on the couple, he pulled in a deep breath and held his hands away from his body. Justus sent his senses outward, testing and feeling for adepts in the area, looking for their magical signatures. He felt the McIntyres’ aura, as well as the people walking along the sidewalk. No mages. Only humans.

Justus dropped his senses and sent a questing element made of Earth around the room, looking for glass or dirt, the amount of gathered magic minute, but detectable if another adept was within a hundred feet. Shards of glass and bits of dirt whirled out from cracks and from under the bar, creating a mass about the size of a cereal bowl. It whispered like sand along the floor and formed a small vortex at his feet.

From the barbecue area in the back yard, Maggie laughed, and Emmett said something in a low voice, then the sound of his laughter joined hers. Justus released the gathered magic quickly, and the bits of glass brushed the leg of his black jeans before dropping to the floor. He hissed when he saw shards of glass had stuck to the material and tried to brush it away with his hand. A moment later, he realized his mistake, and now his curse was louder with the sight of the particles of glass stuck to his hands. He finished sweeping the pile into a dustpan, when Maggie walked stiffly through the doorway, her eyes still sparkling from Emmett’s teasing.