Inherited Magic (17 page)

Chapter 54

John, Conrad, and Eric (Conrad had finally introduced his driver/bodyguard) stood in the warehouse. It was awkward for John because it had also become his hideout; there were boxes with his clothes and things stacked next to a cot that John was using as a bed. John felt like he was squatting and was uncomfortable with it.

“So, let’s see what you can do, John.” Conrad leaned on his cane casually.

“Sure thing.” John stepped away from Conrad and Eric, took a deep breath, and launched into a display of his magical skills. Fire, ice, lightning, moving objects, augmenting his ability to leap and run. Once John got used to it, he enjoyed it and enjoyed the display of his skills. He finished up and turned to Conrad for approval.

“Is that all?” Conrad was unimpressed.

“No.” John felt like he had just failed his driving test because he ran a stop sign. “I have one more thing I learned, but Owen didn't teach it to me and it's dangerous.”

“Really?” Conrad cocked an eyebrow and looked at Eric who just shrugged. “My dear boy, magic violates all reason and logic. What could make it more dangerous?”

“Just keep a safe distance from it.” John walked to the trash and pulled out a greasy burger wrapper and pressed it into a tight ball of wax paper and day old burger drippings. He used a pattern to give it some weight and threw it across the warehouse. He took a deep breath and focused on finding where the paper’s pattern repeated and hooked back on itself, it was so much easier now. Bracing himself for the explosion, he unhooked the patterns and watched as the surrounding patterns withdrew from the explosion and the sudden creation of dark chaos.

John looked to Conrad for approval and saw horror frozen on his face. Eric was unimpressed with the explosion; apparently, he wasn't a mage and couldn't see the twisted patterns. John walked back over to the trash, pulled out an empty soda bottle, and threw it into the small patch of madness. It twisted, burst into flames, and briefly turned itself inside out before falling apart. He looked again at Conrad, and the look of horror was replaced by amazed curiosity.

“You figured this out yourself from what you saw?” Conrad gestured at the smoldering metal and glass remains that had once been a plastic bottle.

“Yeah.”

“I've read about something like it. I never thought I'd see it in person. I've never heard about what it did to objects that encountered the . . . aftereffects.” Conrad spoke carefully and slowly.

“What was it used for?”

“The book I found it in described using it as part of the defenses for a fortress or as a trap.” Conrad paused, and in the fleeting silence, John could only imagine the horrible things that would happen to a person who stepped into broken patterns. “The writer pointed out that it was horrific, and few mages had the stomach or lack of morality to use it. I've often thought that this was why the knowledge was lost.”

“Perhaps this all should be lost.” John was shocked to hear Eric say something so opposed to the interests of his employer. “I don't see it bringing about world peace or feeding the poor. Magic just makes screwed up people into screwed up people with power.”

“You are right in many ways, Eric.” Conrad shuffled over to the cot and sat down. “It has done little good for the world and I doubt it ever will, but I can't stand idly by while people like Veronica amass power. If nothing else, we must save the world from our own evils until this knowledge is finally lost.”

“Can't we be discreet? Make it rain during a drought—”

“Stop an earthquake from killing thousands.” Conrad interrupted John and carried the idea. “Undo global warming, disable nuclear weapons, heal the sick, and feed the poor. We have limits with the knowledge that is left to us and we have our own human limitations. We must also contend with the reactions of our fellow humans. As you are painfully aware, not everyone has forgotten that mages and magic are real. The FBI was quick to catch up with you, in hopes of recruiting you, and they are not the only ones. They would see our interventions as part of some agenda, even if there wasn't one. Then there is the average everyday person. They seldom take responsibility for their own lives and progress unless they learn the lesson through pain. If we save them from themselves what are we really doing?”

“If we let them die then what good does that do?” John had thought Conrad and Owen dreamed of better than this, of doing good for the world.

“How many people do you think starved to death while we've been talking? How many murders and rapes have occurred? You couldn't be in all those places at once. Even with the most powerful spells, we have limits. So how do you choose who lives and who dies? Do you have the right to choose and how far are you going to go with your responsible use of power? Will you prevent tyrants from coming to power and will you impose your ideas of right and wrong on others who disagree with you?”

John withered under Conrad's harsh gaze. “I . . . ” he stammered.

“You have ideals and want to change things for the better. You are a good person, but there are no easy moral choices here and it is only made more difficult because no one can hold us accountable unless we let them.” Conrad stood up slowly. “When was the last time you were in a fistfight, boy?”

“When I tackled Peter.”

“That doesn’t count; you were using magic.”

“Not since junior high then. I won though.”

Eric chuckled to himself and walked towards the door.

“Here.” Conrad handed John a business card. “Ask for Lopez and tell him I sent you. He'll help you get into shape and teach you a few tricks that might keep you alive. Consider it my Christmas gift.”

“Christmas?”

“Yes, Christmas. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

Chapter 55

It was strange. The holidays had never meant much to John but an inconvenience of shopping, the quest for that perfect gift for someone. He and his father had always kept Christmas simple: gag gifts and a small meal they fixed together. It provided a sense of togetherness and family without being suffocating and was a sharp contrast to Barb’s family. Not that they lacked intimacy or togetherness. The meals were extravagant and took all day to prepare, often involving rotating shifts. The process of giving gifts was turned into an elaborate game of stealing and trading that often involved alliances and deal making worthy of terrible reality shows, but there was always laughter and abundant humor. It was fun but alien to John.

Here in the warehouse, by himself, he missed it all. He was starting to see how people struggled with solitude and isolation. That it could be a terror to be forever alone, with nothing but your own momentary voice against the eternal voice of silence. He had brief fantasies of wandering around the city till he found some small corner of cheer that he could enjoy with other people. They were brief and collapsed under the weight of his fears and doubts.

There were more than just his fears and self-doubts out there. Somewhere, the FBI was quietly and persistently pursuing their agenda of “truth, justice and the American way,” by their standards and no one else’s. There was a woman who wanted John dead, revenge for her captured boyfriend. What was she doing for Christmas? Plotting his death by carefully sharpened candy canes, no doubt. Try as he might, he could not imagine Veronica surrounded by a warm and loving family. Owen had told him that she might have killed her father, hadn’t he? If not, he had implied it.

What kind of woman turns and kills here own father? John let the thought tumble through his mind and realized he was asking the wrong question. What makes a woman kill her own father for profit? That idea had motion. What had her father done to her? Was he the first or was he killed after some event? Questions just breed new questions and John knew he would never honestly know.

John understood her anger at him; he had pushed back and taunted, given her the opportunity to move against him. But he could not understand any part of her that was not anger and hatred. He found himself unable to imagine her laughing at something funny or expressing joy. Was that his shortcoming, an inability to imagine his enemy as a complete person? While the rest of the city celebrated, John spent a cruel night with self exploration and doubt.

Chapter 56

The gym that Conrad sent him to was not in a part of Chicago that John had never been to, but he had heard about on the news often enough. He got off the Green Line at Ashland and was shocked by the mixed realities around him. Even at this early hour of the morning, there were a few prostitutes leaning against the wall of a burger joint that proudly declared that it accepted food stamps in neon letters. Their pimp across the street eyed John with obvious distaste, as several BMW's edged through the tension. John tried to feel safe and secure in the fact of his growing magical prowess, but he was painfully aware of the fact that Owen had been a far better mage than he would ever be, and he had been killed with a simple handgun.

As John walked away from the L, he saw new condos standing next to boarded up warehouses and shady looking clubs. The area was struggling with a changing identity and there was no hiding it. There had been more than a few news reports about muggings on and around Green Line stops in this neighborhood, but that wouldn't stop people from buying property and pushing out those who couldn't afford the new improvements and raised rent. Those people weren't the less desirable element; they were just too poor to move away from the crime. John thought back to his debate with Conrad, and was angered by his inability to see a way that he could directly change things. Time and time again he was confronted by the very real limits of magic and what had once become a bright and incorruptible hope had become dingy and damaged, like so many parts of Chicago.

The address he was looking for was a couple of blocks away, and had he not known better, he would have thought the graffiti covered and boarded up store front only concealed another abandoned building. The door opened easily though, and he was immediately greeted with music that had a driving tempo and Spanish lyrics. At the top of the stairs, a very attractive woman with a heavy Mexican accent asked him whom he was looking for and smiled when he explained. She was dressed as if she were about to get in the boxing ring herself: shorts and a tight fitting top under a sleeveless t-shirt. She navigated the large gym filled with men lifting weights and sparring with a silent confidence that suggested she wasn't just dressing the part. She walked to a corner near a boxing ring, where several men were leaning against the ropes watching two men spar. She called out in Spanish that was sharp and clipped, and one of the men stepped away from the match.

“Mr. Lopez?” John extended his hand. “Conrad sent me. He said you'd be willing to train me.”

“Yeah, the old guy called me and told me to get ya in shape. Call me Davy.” He took John’s hand in a crushing grip and smiled brightly in a sharp way. Davy wasn't much taller than John, but he was solidly built and if his grip was indication, very strong. “Let’s see what I gotta work with.” His soft accent lent him a friendly air. “Yeah, you bring gloves or do you need a pair?”

“Uh, I just brought some shorts and things.”

“The locker room is over there.” Davy pointed to the opposite corner. “When you're ready, I'll get you some gloves.”

John went into the small locker room and got changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He felt out of place and intimidated, but couldn't walk away. He needed this to survive the duel with Veronica, and he kept reminding himself that it was better to embarrass himself now than to die later.

Once he was ready, he left the locker room and found Davy waiting for him with tape and gloves. They walked to an empty ring and Davy started taping up John’s hands without ceremony.

“You ever box before?”

“No.”

“Martial Arts?”

“No.”

“Hell, have you ever seen a Kung Fu movie?” Davy grinned, and John couldn't help but chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“Now, don't worry. We're gonna go easy on ya, since it's your first time. I just gotta know what you got.” Davy pulled the laces on the gloves tight. “How's that?”

“Good, I guess.” John felt silly and slightly trapped with the tape and the boxing gloves on his hands.

“Step into the ring then, man.” Davy lifted the rope for John. John ducked under and stepped onto the canvas mat of the ring and came face to face with the young woman who had led him to Davy. She was wearing gloves and protective head gear with a look about her that told him she was going to enjoy kicking his ass. John started to complain, but Davy was pulling headgear onto John’s head. “Keep your hands up and block as best you can, and no matter what you do, don't just stand still.”

“But—”

“Yeah, here's a bit for ya.” Davy ripped open a package and pushed a mouth guard into John’s face, the plastic tasted cruel and antiseptic. And like that, John was alone in the ring with a beautiful woman who had every intention of kicking his ass.

Let’s be honest. More than a few gentlemen have said “I'll never hit a woman” and just as many men have uttered vulgarities as they slapped a woman. It is an interesting fact of life that the vast majority of women have no reservations about hitting men, or even landing a well placed kick to the family jewels. This is not to say that women have an undercurrent of violent feelings towards men, but it is not to deny it either. Let's look at facts, though, and accept that every woman knows one or two men that they feel need a solid ass kicking and just as many women that would love to provide it to those men. Elena, who stood in the ring facing John, knew more than her fair share of men in need of an ass kicking, most of them were there in the gym. She had also been inaccurately told that John had commented on her ass and what he wanted to do with it on Saturday night. This quickly added John to her ass kicking list.

The bell rang, and Elena came at John like a tigress.

John tried, he really did, but he had no idea what he was doing. Every punch landed like a stone, and he couldn't help but stumble backwards till he was against the ropes. He raised his head, determined to see where she was so he could at least take a swing and preserve his dignity. He shouldn't have. Elena saw her opening and landed a picture perfect left hook on his jaw, and as far as John was concerned, the lights went out.

He awoke to someone slapping him not so gently, and he heard a voice repeating; “Yo, Johnny-boy? You dead or not?” There was laughter in the background, and he could hear an undercurrent of music. He wanted to retreat back into the happy nothing of darkness and not face the humiliation that he had just been put through, but Davy slapped his face again.

“He's alive!” Davy laughed in a way that was good natured, as he helped John to a stool in the corner of the ring. “Yo, Johnny-boy, you suck at boxing!” There was laughter in the background.

Elena charged into his field of vision, her hair wild, and teeth bared. “Don't you ever talk about me that way again.” She switched to Spanish and insults splashed over John as she was half dragged away by a couple of guys twice her size trying not to laugh.

“What the fuck? I never said—”

“Don't worry about it, man. Some of the guys were just having some fun.”

“Fun? I just got my ass kicked by some really hot pissed off chick. That was not fun.”

“Yeah.” Davy laughed gently. “Yeah, it was.”

John groaned and tried to figure out how to get out of the gloves.

“Yo, you suck at this, bro.” Davy started unlacing one of the gloves. “Conrad said you were in some trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“I have another hot chick that wants to kick my ass.”

Davy chuckled. “We got a lot of work to do then. Like every day, all morning. Look at the bright side though. Conrad already paid your membership and everything.”

John did not feel better.