Wizards

Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2014

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Wizard costume: Target: Spell Master Blue Wizard

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Author’s Note

Prologue

The Judge was finishing lunch when he noticed the procession. Through the open front window, he watched them move toward the house. The townsmen were gathered in a tight angry knot around a prisoner, limiting his chance of escape and forcing him to move as they directed. From the way the man’s head was darting from side to side though, there was an even chance that he’d bolt before they arrived at his door.

Donner, the blacksmith, had apparently seen his intention too, and put a callused hand on the man’s shoulder. At the touch, he sagged in defeat, stumbling. Then, taking a strengthening breath, he straightened and stuck out his chin in a show of bravado.

They filed into the front room, quietly, not wanting to be there at all, but having little choice. They were curious too, for there’d been no judgings in this place in any living man’s memory.

Donner, hat in hand, was about to speak for the townsmen, but he waved that away. I know the charges, he said, tiredly. Donner, looking relieved, stepped back, leaving the prisoner standing front and center.

The Judge studied the man before him with interest. Santos was ragged and dirty, two years away from the comforts of civilization. His beard was carelessly knife-cut, and stained with the remains of past meals. His clothing was ragged, but tolerably clean, a mark in his favor. Insect bites dotted his arms and face, and the scar of some past encounter with trouble crossed one cheek. His had not been an easy life.

The Judge sighed, reflecting that nothing could be gained by prolonging this. The townsmen didn’t need the lesson, and the prisoner wouldn’t listen, so he moved to stand behind his desk, distancing himself from the townspeople and assuming the mantle of his office.

Santos, he said, allowing his voice to harden, This is the second time I’ve seen you like this. You don’t seem to learn, do you? The man just glared.

The first time, it was you and I. He gestured at the townsmen. This time we have company. There will be no next time. He studied the man for a moment, then shook his head and continued in more formal tones. You’re charged with shoplifting, and out-and-out thievery. What do you have to say for yourself? How it would go was obvious, but there were procedures to be observed, and they said the question had to be asked. No one showed surprise that he already knew the charges being brought against the man.

Santos drew himself to full height, and with his eyes, dared the Judge to contradict him as he said, I did nothing. I—Ahhh! His face twisted in pain for a moment, then became a mask of fury. Damn you! The hate in his eyes was almost a visible glare.

Santos, he said, with a sigh. You, of all people, should know better than to try to lie to me. You’ve tried before. He shook his head at the stubborn foolishness of the man, then, with a sigh, returned to the business at hand.

Let me tell you what’s going to happen, he said, as he reached into a drawer, searching for a moment. Finally, finding what he was seeking, he straightened and held out both hands to display the contents. One of these is for you.

The man blanched, and tried to draw back. He was stopped by one of the townsmen, then shoved roughly forward, almost falling.

He gave the man time to compose himself, before saying, Here in my hands lies your future, Santos, but the choice is yours. You’ve demonstrated that you can’t live in the company of people and willingly play by society’s rules—rules like not stealing or bullying. That’s already cost you a great deal. He gestured at the stigma of Santos’ bare arm and neck. Now, it will cost you more. In my right hand is the key to your acceptance into polite society, and in my left is our protection from you. The choice of which you wear is yours, but you’ll be wearing one of them when you leave.

The man was pale, and a visible tremble showed in the finger he pointed at his left hand. What...what is it?

The judge looked down at the dark ovoid, its chain draped carelessly across his hand. Then he met the eyes of the accused man once more, wondering which choice he’d make. He nodded toward that hand. If you wear it you’ll never enter a human settlement. The other will allow you to live where you like—by helping you remember right and wrong. You rejected it at our last meeting.

Santos twisted his hands together in an agony of indecision. Several times he reached out for the left hand. Each time he drew back without having made a choice. Sweat sprang out on his forehead, to mingle with the dirt there, though in truth the day was pleasantly cool.

Choose or I choose for you! He allowed anger to enter his voice. I have no time for fools, and this has gone on long enough.

The man was in obvious distress. He tried, several times, before he managed to say, But I don’t want either! Please, let me go, I’ll keep straight. I promise! His hands clutched at his head in horror as his own words betrayed him, the pain driving him to his knees.

I can’t, I can’t, he said in a tortured whisper. Please...you choose.

The Judge sighed. You already know how I’ll choose, he said, dropping the left-hand amulet back into the drawer. Closing the drawer, he straightened and stepped out from behind the battered old desk, dropping the chain over the bowed head of the man in front of him, muttering an incantation as he did so. You’re free to go now, Santos, he said, stepping out of the man’s way. It’s over.

Santos looked up, his eyes unreadable. Then he turned and walked towards the door, his steps quick and controlled. Halfway there, though, he stopped, sagging, his face locked in a grimace of unbearable pain. Holding his hands to his head and moaning, he staggered as though deep in his cups, dealing himself a sharp but unnoticed blow to the shins from a nearby chair. Finally, he sank to the floor, whimpering, still clutching his hands to his head.

The townsmen watched for a few moments in unhappy silence. Finally, Donner asked the question that must have been on everyone’s mind. Pardon sir, but...will he die? I wouldn’t want to have him die over a shirt and a few trifles.

The Judge reflected that he was getting too old for this and sighed. No Donner, he won’t die, but for some people, I’m afraid, the truth hurts.

° ° °

The sound of the telephone was last thing Myles Grant wanted to hear. Lying warm and sleepy next to Mina, in the afterglow of their loving, the outside world was a most highly unwanted intrusion. Mina sighed irritably and snuggled her back a little closer to his chest, her muttered annoyance a mirror of his own. She was soft, bed-warm, and awfully sweet to be next to. He pulled her close and yawned, dismissing the urge to ignore the summons. It would be easy to do, but in the end, was a luxury he didn’t have.

Half asleep, Mina pulled his arm more tightly around her. Don’t answer Myles. I’m much too comfortable.

He sighed, then kissed the back of her neck. Sighing again, he began to free his arm and move away. With reluctance, he let the world come crashing back, and unhappiness tinged his voice, when he said, "You know I don’t want to, my love, but I have to. It might be Him."

Reluctantly, he picked up his phone, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice. Myles Grant here. He was almost successful.

Myles, this is Jack. President Postem liked to be on a first-name basis with his people. They of course called him Mr. President. I need a reading from you on a rather strange issue.

He hurriedly moved to sit against the headboard. No matter how he felt about being interrupted, or about the frustrations of the job, it was a great feeling to be called by the President of the United States for advice. Mina put her head on his leg, watching. He absently stroked the nape of her neck and threw her a wink. Shoot, Mr. President.

A pause of several seconds followed, accompanied by the sound of a deep breath being taken. When The President finally spoke, his words carried a tone of apology. Myles, I know this must sound silly, but...is real magic possible? I mean wave a wand, a puff of smoke, and you have things appearing from the air...that sort of thing?

He frowned, wondering. What the hell was going on at the White House? Another of the famous all-night card games? The President seemed deadly serious, though.

No, Mr. President, he said, keeping his voice professionally neutral, as befit the Presidential Science Advisor. It’s not. Sure, you can have the appearance of magic, but somewhere backstage is the gimmick, the hardware, and the prop-man. It’s always there.

That’s what I thought. Thanks, Myles. A click of disconnect was followed by the quiet hiss of a dead line.

He put the phone back on the night table and settled his chin firmly into his hand, eyes momentarily unfocused, his head shaking in negation. Now, what in the hell was that all about?

Mina drew herself up to face him, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, her chin cupped in both hands. Her long black hair swung forward to frame her face, and he couldn’t help smiling at the sight. She was lovely, and he never tired of watching her.

She shook her head and laughed. "Myles, you should have seen your face. You looked worse than a pickle-taster on a bad day. If you don’t mind my repeating your question, what was that all about?"

Well, he said, with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. I don’t know for sure, but I think old ‘Roast-em Postem has finally gone ‘round the bend. He asked me if there was such a thing as magic. Can you believe it? I get this strange mental picture of the White House staff gathered around a pentagram trying to make a deal with the Devil. Or maybe interviewing hags for the position of official White House Witch.

She chewed on her lip before saying, I’d like to be a witch, and do magic, she said, thoughtfully. She noticed his expression, and beat his comment, slapping him playfully on the leg. No. Not like Snow White’s stepmother, you smartass. Before he could respond, she slapped his leg again And not like the witch who was fattening Hansel and Gretel for the stew pot, either.

He chuckled, and returned to important things, like rubbing her foot to get her in the proper frame of mind, lost when the call interrupted their cuddling. In response, she hummed in pleasure for a moment, her eyes half closing. Then, apparently remembering what she’d been saying, she frowned in mock anger and trapped his hand in both of hers, saying Stop for a minute, so I can think.

Mmm?

I’d like to be a witch. I’d be known as Mina the Good, and wear beautiful gowns like Glinda from the Oz books. Her eyes turned dreamy, and she held his hand softly to her cheek before kissing the palm and saying, I’d like to really help people, instead of putting Band-Aids on their problems the way I do now.

He leaned down to kiss her, and unbidden, came the thought, Where would I be now if you hadn’t had that flat tire?

° ° °

Night was falling, as was a light rain, when Myles noticed a woman by her car on the shoulder of the Beltway, struggling to change a tire. With a mutter of, Time to do my daily good turn, he pulled to the shoulder behind her, where his headlights would help illuminate the area, and got out.

Can I help? he said as he approached. She’d raised the car on the jack, which said she’d taken the time to learn how to change a tire. Interesting.

I hope so, she said. The idiot who tightened these lug nuts was a lot stronger than I am. Plus, the wheel hasn’t been off for over two years, so....

Unfortunately, he had no more success than she’d been having, and in the end, called for help, then waited with her.

In the warmth of the car, with the windows fogging them out of the night, he couldn’t help but smile, as she graphically listed the attributes of the mechanic who’d over-tightened the lug nuts. She spent a great deal of time, in several languages, describing his sexual habits and parentage.

He was impressed that she did so at length, without getting obscene, or even very coarse. Eventually, though, she ran out of languages and inspiration, and cooled down enough to apologize, and thank him for his help. Discovering that she had a blinding smile to complement and offset her fierce temper added to his admiration of the lady.

Taken by her dark beauty and endlessly deep eyes, with their pitch-black iris, he asked her to join him for dinner, where, he discovered that she was as dedicated to her calling as he was to his. And, had a mind as curious and active as his own.

She stood five foot three, to his six-two, and looked like the kind of girl a man would want to take home and cuddle with. But she held a brown belt in a style of self-defense originally designed for Israeli combat soldiers. In her occupation, that of social worker, she often went into neighborhoods less than ideal for a woman alone. More than once, she claimed, she’d been forced to convince a would-be Romeo that she wasn’t his type.

I’m dedicated, she liked to say, Not stupid. Inside though, when she relaxed, was a warm and witty human being.

One snowy Washington afternoon, Mina woke to find herself on her couch leaning comfortably against Myles, his arms softly around her. Thinking back, he’d been trapped in her apartment by bad driving conditions. As a result, relaxed after dinner and wine, they’d been discussing nothing in particular until dawn brightened the windows. Apparently, they’d fallen asleep on the couch, and moved together for comfort.

Now, she found the room cloaked in shadowed dimness. The snow outside had deepened, muffling the city’s noises in the special silence unique to a fresh snowfall.

For a time, she floated softly in a quiet gray world, at peace, listening to his quiet breathing. The clock-display on the TV’s modem read 4:50 PM. She mused over the idea that she’d just slept with a man she’d yet to kiss properly.

She eased away from him, then turned to study his sleeping face. Strength of character showed there, plus a vulnerability that went into hiding when he was awake. He was handsome, in a rugged masculine way, but it wouldn’t have mattered if the world thought him ugly. It was the sum of what he was that she saw when she looked at him, and that was beautiful. Never before had she felt so secure and comfortable. Finally, in surprise and wonder, she whispered Dear God, how I do love this man.

It was that simple. She shook him, gently, and said Myles, wake up...I love you.

What? He stretched, his joints crackling and popping with disuse.

Pay attention, she told him. I said, wake up...I love you.

He blinked, then smiled and held her tightly against him for a time before saying, How nice. He kissed her gently. Then with more than friendship for the first time, and that was nice too. Eventually, she suggested they move to her bedroom.

° ° °

Myles frowned. So, you’d like to be a witch, with a caldron, and maybe some kids in a cage being fattened for the pot? I don’t think—

Stop it, Myles, I’m serious. Her voice carried tones of frustration. Why can’t there be magic? There’s so much I want to do!

Interested, he leaned back against the headboard. You mean you’d wave your magic wand and conjure a pile of gold for your clients?

She beat on his leg again, her expression serious. His teasing had apparently struck a sensitive spot. No, you dummy! Not a free lunch. That won’t help in the long run. I’d conjure skills into their heads, and give them the tools to get themselves out of the bind they live in. I’d conjure up jobs that needed doing. She softened, almost whispering. And most of all, I’d give them self-respect. She came into his arms then, a little girl needing cuddling and love, her voice a tickle in his ear. Why can’t there be magic? Wouldn’t you like it, too?

No Mina, I wouldn’t. He sighed. You, of all people, should know I can’t believe in something for nothing. If you had a pet demon who could pop things into existence, I’d want to study him, to work out the laws that governed his operation. He shook his head gently. I’d love to give you what you want, Mina my love, if for no other reason but that you want it. As for me? Nope, I could never accept it. He smiled then, and stroked her hair. There’s only one magic thing that I can accept without question or thought, and that’s you. He slid down next to her and held her cheeks softly between his palms, while he looked into her eyes. For your sake, Mina, I almost wish there were such things. But there aren’t.

No, she smiled, There aren’t, except...you’re my wizard and my magic, Myles, and I do love you.

They were both wrong. At 4:27 that afternoon, in the city of Salem, Massachusetts, the first wizard arrived.

° ° ° °

Chapter 1

Arrival

Salem was a poetic choice for the appearance of the wizard, and Don arrived in a way that befits a wizard. First came a huge ball of electric fire, snapping and arcing, on the lawn. That attracted the tourists gathered by the famous Witch House of Salem, waiting for the next tour to begin. They stared in open-mouthed shock as the arcing was absorbed by blue incandescence that grew in intensity, then solidified into a globe of light, almost too bright to look at, before dimming to reveal the shadow image of a man in the center of the ball. Over the next thirty seconds, he solidified, as the light lost intensity, then died.

The tourists first stared in disbelief. But then, assuming it was a trick of some kind, and part of the tour, relaxed. After all, he was exactly what you’d expect a wizard to be. Both his robes and, his pointed blue wizard’s cap