World Walker 1: The World Walker (10 page)

The sounds of admiration turned to sudden screams of panic as the huge beast on stage which had just risen up from the floor draped in silk, apparently became enraged and broke away from its handlers. Byron stepped nimbly aside as the huge shape charged. As it reached the edge of the stage, it leapt the footlights and sailed toward the audience,
 

eting at ear-splitting volume. The screams reached new levels of panic, as people started to climb over each other in their hopeless attempt to avoid the acrobatic pachyderm.
 

Byron blinked at the flying elephant. It turned into a million pieces of glitter which fluttered slowly down on the front five rows of the audience. There was a shocked silence. Then a long pause. Byron counted silently, still with that small smile on his face.

"One elephant, two elephant, three elephant, four elephant, five elephant, six ele-,"

The place went berserk. Every man, woman and child flew out of their seat, clapping, cheering, whistling, shouting, screaming, whooping, fist-pumping. The roar of 2,500 people screaming themselves hoarse began to find a rhythm, becoming a pulse, a chant; incoherent at first, then clearer and clearer.

"Byron, Byron, Byron, Byron BYRON, BYRON, BYRON, BYRON, BYRON!"

Byron blew a little kiss and walked into the wings. The calls for an encore would go on for 10-15 minutes. They always did. But not giving encores was one of Byron's little rules. Along with not appearing on TV. Or giving any interviews. Col, his manager, thought he was crazy. Had almost decided not to represent him after all. Then Byron gave him a demonstration and he changed his mind. "Just do that for every newspaper editor," he said, " and they'll give you all the publicity you'll ever want. And then some."

Col was waiting in his dressing room. "Fantastic, Byron, as always. Now look, I've had another call from America. They've doubled the offer."
 

Byron dabbed at his face with a towel, the brown makeup staining the white cotton.

"You know my answer, Col," he said. No shows outside Australia was another little rule.

That last rule was the one Byron knew he would never dare break. He could make a pretty good living touring his native Australia, without venturing abroad. He had always wanted to travel, so it was ironic that the very secret that had made him such a massive success also tied him to his home country. And not just his country. He couldn't even go more than a day's travel away from his little house near Sydney. Not without losing all his magic, he couldn't.

The tiny two-bed house on the edge of a new development had been all Byron could afford after his divorce. Marjorie had left him for a juggler. All that time moaning about him being a magician and she'd left him for a freaking juggler. It had hit him hard at first and his life had settled into a pattern of late-night solitary drinking and ignoring the bills piling up on his mat.
 
For a while, it looked like he would end up losing even the pokey little house he'd spent his last bit of money buying.

Then, after one particularly heavy night with a bottle of vodka, he'd crawled out of bed around noon, grabbed a beer, put on his sunglasses and decided to take a seat in the yard. He had lived in the house for nearly three months, but this was the first time since viewing it with the realtor that he'd actually stepped into the yard. He dragged a chair from the kitchen, planted it in the middle of the paved space, facing back at the house. He sat there, sipping the beer, looking at the only thing he could call his own after 27 years of marriage. He decided he wouldn't be performing at the children's party booked for that afternoon. He just had a very strong feeling that, assuming the damn kids didn't pass out purely from the toxicity of his breath, he might finally give in to the urge to strangle the little bastards with his balloon animals. Better to stay home. Better yet, stay home and drink some more beers.
 

He got up to take a leak, but hesitated. Something seemed to be gently pulling at his consciousness, like an invisible thread pulling a playing card out of a deck. He turned and squinted into the corner of his yard. For some reason, he very much wanted to go and stand there. He squinted a little more, making his headache pulse more insistently. He really needed another beer. But this pull was hard to resist, despite it leading him to nothing more than a square foot of dirt with a few tufts of coarse grass trying to push through. He belched and walked over to the corner of the yard. With every step, things changed. He felt better. He felt happier. He felt...right.

Finally, standing where the mysterious pull seemed to insist he stand, he smiled without knowing the reason why. He felt excited, like a kid spotting the biggest present under the Christmas tree and knowing it was for him. For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do. He just stood there with this strange quizzical smile on his face. Then, obeying some strange impulse, he knelt down and put his palms flat onto the ground. Instantly, energy seemed to flow from the earth into his fingers, his hands, his arms, his body, his head. The hangover burned away like mist as the sun comes up. His teeth buzzed with the energy that poured into him.

As quickly as it had begun, it stopped. He stood up. Not so much stood, as
bounced.
Something had changed. He felt 20 years younger. And, suddenly, he wanted to go to that kids' party.

Later, as he drove home with an extra $100 tip in his pocket, he tried to rationalize what was going on, but reason seemed to have little place in the afternoon's events. He knew something had happened in the yard. And he knew those kids had just seen the best magician they were ever going to see. He knew that, because what they had seen was real magic. He had gone through his usual repertoire - good enough, funny in places, made them giggle, got them shouting, did his job. Then he got to his finale, where he pulled Rodney the mind-reading rabbit out of his hat. The younger kids loved that bit, especially when he pretended to hypnotize Rodney. He'd revealed the card the kid was thinking of, was about to say goodbye, then changed his mind. Reaching into his top hat one more time, he pulled out a puppy. Then another. Then a third. Thirty seconds later, the room was full of puppies, the children screaming with delight. The adults were in the kitchen, probably hitting the vodka themselves. Byron knew they'd be back to see what the noise was about. How was he going to explain this? With a performer's instincts, he snapped his fingers. The puppies immediately became cuddly toys, just as the mother of the birthday boy put her head around the door.

"What a lovely touch!" she said, as the children scooped up a toy puppy each. One very happy customer.

Byron drove straight home, giggling. His only concern was that what had happened might be temporary. This fear seemed to be justified later when, after magically producing various small mammals in the bathroom and the front room, he found he couldn't do it any more. He had gone cold. He didn't think he even wanted to go on living without this new power. Magic was real, just like he'd imagined when he got his first magic set, aged seven. It couldn't be taken away from him! He had stumbled out to the yard in the moonlight and knelt in the same spot, hardly daring to breath in case what had happened was a one-time deal. He felt the energy buzzing almost immediately and wept with relief.

Now, just eight months later, he was the best-known, busiest, and wealthiest magician in Australia. No more kids' parties for Byron. He walked out of the stage door, past the fans who'd lined up four deep behind the ropes to get a close look at the miracle worker. They never screamed, shouted, called out or asked for autographs. They were too much in awe of him. It was enough just to see him. Deep down, they all knew what they had just witnessed was no trick.

Byron climbed into the two-seater Mercedes. The cream leather squeaked as his bulk settled into it. The engine made that slightly angry roar he loved as he turned the key. He headed home, Col's last words still echoing in his head.

"America, Byron. Europe. Royalty, film directors, musicians, actors. They all want you. Think about it."
 

He wished he could go. But he knew all his power would be gone within a day or two unless he could get back to his yard. He sighed and tapped the steering wheel, lowering the automatic roof to enjoy the balmy evening. He had booked himself a little "entertainment" for the rest of his evening. He might not be able to leave his native country, but being fabulously wealthy brought some compensations.
 

After he had been home an hour, he'd checked his watch in frustration, then called the agency.

"Where the hell is she?" he said, when they picked up. He listened as he walked through to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get a beer. Alcohol didn't seem to affect him the same way these days, but you couldn't beat a cold one.

"Yeah, well, I don't care how reliable she is normally, she isn't here now and-," Byron stopped talking and looked out into the yard. In the moonlight stood a naked woman. An incredible looking naked woman with the most amazing body he had ever seen. She was beckoning him. He licked his lips.

"Never mind," he said into the phone. "She's here."

Out in the yard, he shivered slightly. He looked hungrily at the naked woman. Other than the perky nipples, there was no evidence that she felt cold. She smiled at him coquettishly.

"Going to show me some magic, Brian?" she whispered.

"It's Byron," he said, angrily, his excitement waning rapidly. The agency was supposed to make sure the girls were submissive. He had had enough lip from Marjorie to last a lifetime, thank you very much. He moved closer to the naked woman. She was still smiling at him. Perhaps the back of his hand would make her a little more respectful. He drew himself up to his full height. The heeled shoes he'd taken to wearing made him nearly five foot nine, but this woman was still an inch or two taller.
 

"I can see I'm going to have to teach you some manners," he said. She looked at him and laughed.
Laughed.
 

"Oh, dear," she said, her perfect breasts bobbing disconcertingly as she chuckled. "What a waste. All that potential, all that power, and such a silly little man."

Enough was enough. The agency charged a fair bit more if he bruised the merchandise. Byron decided tonight was going to be expensive. He slapped the woman across the face. Hard. She laughed again, shook her head, then held up a wagging finger, tutting at him.

"My turn," she said. She swung her hand toward his neck. He had time to see the hand darken and change shape, the nails elongating and sharpening to become micro-thin and razor-like, before the blow neatly decapitated him. His head retained consciousness long enough to see his body fall backward into the yard. As the scene dimmed and disappeared, he realized she had been right about him being a silly little man: his last thought was, "ta-da!".

Chapter 11

Between Los Angeles and Albuquerque

Present Day

As Seb opened his eyes, the floor beneath him moved and he lurched to one side, his arms coming up to stop him falling. He grabbed a handrail and steadied himself. He was in the bathroom of a train. There was a shower attachment on the wall and a round mirror over the tiny basin. He ran some cold water and splashed it on his face. Looking at himself, something seemed wrong. He frowned, trying to work out what it was before he realized.

I haven't shaved in three days
.

 
He rubbed a hand over his baby-smooth, stubble-free chin, frowning. His hands looked manicured, the nails short and clean. Backing up as much as he could in the cramped room, he saw that he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

Nice outfit,
he said to his reflection.
Where'd ya get it?

 
He pulled on the lapels, straightening the jacket over his shoulders. He frowned again. There was something in his pocket. Reaching into the jacket, he pulled out a cardboard folder and his wallet. He opened the folder first. Tickets from LA to Albuquerque. Superliner bedroom. Seb opened the bathroom door. Sure enough, he had his own sleeper, small but private, with a seat by the window and a couch/bed.
Well, Seb, whatever the hell else is going on, the good news is, you're doing it in style
.
 

His stomach growled and he checked his watch. Dinner time.

The dining car was busy and noisy. At first, Seb thought there were no spare seats, but when he moved to one side to let a waiter through he realized he had squeezed into an empty bench. He had to look twice, as he was sure he'd seen a figure dozing there, leaning against the window. No - the seat was definitely empty. On the other side of the table, a man nursing a large red wine waved the glass in Seb's direction.

"It's free," he said, "join me."

Seb slid gratefully onto the seat. The man opposite pushed a menu across toward him.
 

"Steak's overpriced, but passable," he said. "If you're hungry." Seb was hungry. Really hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten properly. He glanced at the menu. The steak was more than $25. He would normally pay with plastic, but if Seb2 was right, he was going to have to rely on cash, which he generally didn't carry much of. He took out his wallet and glanced at the bills, flicking through them.
 

What the hell? There were 20 $50 bills neatly folded in his wallet. Seb guessed the magic money came from the same place as the magic suit and the magic tickets.

"One piece of advice," said the man opposite. He looked to be in his early fifties, well groomed, gray hair, an expensive dark blue suit. His tanned features were set off by warm, intelligent brown eyes. He had the look - and Seb could find no other way of putting it - of someone who knew something you didn't. A whole bunch of things.
 

"What's that?" said Seb.

"Don't bother with the house wine if you have the steak. Help yourself to a glass of this." He tapped the bottle next to him. Seb read the label.