* * *
When a magic user went to prison it was a serious business. Not that normal cushy prison where all you had to worry about was rape, oh no. A Magical Detention Centre had to be concerned with the obvious fact that magic users had all they needed to escape built right into their brains. So, some rather extreme measures were taken.
It was well know that in the old days magical detainees wore solid steel contraptions on their heads; helmets that covered eyes, ears and mouths. In this fashion, there was no risk of the prisoner lashing out with magical attacks. As time went on, some sissy decided to protest and call the act cruel and inhumane. His belief was that it constituted mistreatment, firstly because the prisoner would sometimes wear this device for weeks, secondly; because the prisoner was unable to speak in his or her own defence at court. So in an act of admirable inspiration, the helmet was replaced by a mentally debilitating drug. No more ugly helmet, everyone was happy. The fact that the drug reduced a person to a quivering lump of mindless jelly was negligible.
This sort of information was also included in that brochure handed out at high school, right under the section titled; “Magical Crimes. It’s No Joke!” The text was accompanied by a drawing that had caused quite a stir amongst the students; a man wearing that ghastly helmet, his arms tied across his body in the sleeves of a straightjacket.
As I returned home images of the helmet were struck from my mind, as were thoughts of being a living vegetable for the rest of my life. My focus returned instead to the little demon dilemma with which I was faced. I wanted sleep, and, to be perfectly frank, the thought of it was terrifying.
Why had Selena simply shown me the door? Wasn’t there something she could have taught me to at least help put up a fight? Why, for that matter, could she not have been a little more specific than “sometimes sooner, sometimes later”?
I pushed open the front door and stood at the foot of the steps, wrestling with the idea of attempting sleep. How bad would the next attack be when it occurred? Could a demon draw blood? It seemed logical that if it drew blood in the dream, I would bleed in reality. Was that possible? I didn’t know and wasn’t thrilled about finding out, one way or the other.
I headed instead to the kitchen for another coffee, only to find Clinton, beer in hand, at the kitchen table. He looked up as I entered and I stopped in my tracks.
“Just want some coffee,” I muttered. His response was a silent nod.
I flipped on the kettle and spooned three heaps of coffee into a mug, doing my best to keep my back to him.
“Jet, I would like it if we could talk."
“It’s not a good time, Clinton.”
“Look, Jet. I know you’re not partial to me, that much is obvious. But there is something I very much want to say.”
“I said it’s not a good time.” I added sugar, pulled open the fridge and snatched out the milk.
“Jet, please…”
“I’ve had a bad day, Clinton, really.”
He fell into silence. I added a splash of milk and the kettle started to hiss as it heated the water. I stood waiting for it, still keeping him at my back.
“It’s about your mother, Jet. Please, just listen for a minute.”
I spun on him, anger flashing behind my eyes. “Clinton, seriously! Not now!”
In response he recoiled as if a snake was striking, even raising up a hand to defend from a blow. I stared, the anger slowly subsiding. How pathetic he looked.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
For the first time since he had started stumbling his drunken way around the house, I realised I felt something new for him. Sympathy? No. It was pity.
The water began to boil and the automatic switch clicked.
“It’s okay,” I replied, then sighed and shifted towards the kettle, wanting to get him at my back again. But he reached out and grabbed hold of my upper arm.
“Jet, there’s something else. I can’t find Critter. Have you seen him?”
I snapped. Fury exploded in my head like a bright light and I swatted his hand savagely from my arm, spinning back to face him.
“GET AWAY!” The words tore up my throat and burst from my mouth.
Simultaneously, there was an electric popping in the air, like static electricity on a woolly carpet, and I felt a jolt of energy go leaping forward, seemingly having originated in the air directly before my eyes. My hair was blown back and clothes fluttered, as if caught in a gale wind, then Clinton was being propelled backwards as if struck a powerful blow on the chest. For a brief moment he was airborne, then going crashing over the kitchen table, skidding across its surface and plummeting off the other side.
Having not been dispersed by its collision with Clinton’s body, the released energy remained visible, appearing as a faint shimmering in the air. It continued its journey across the kitchen and went crashing into a wall mounted cupboard; the door fractured, then exploded into fragments. Splinters went spinning across the room and ricocheting off the walls, one even lodging itself in the table as if an arrow.
“I killed Critter!” I roared, “I killed him! Twice!”
Then I was standing in dumbfounded shock as the splinters settled, Clinton gaping up at me with mouth yawning in horror.
Now this was something I hadn’t seen before.
I staggered from the kitchen, Clinton scrambling across the floor to keep his distance from me, and found myself mounting the steps without really knowing where I was going. Then I was pacing in my room.
“What is happening to me? What is happening to me?” No answer was forthcoming.
I became aware that fatigue was gradually settling in over me like a wet, heavy blanket. My legs began to feel weak, shoulders drooped and head suddenly weighed a ton. The energy was being drained from me? No, I had thrown my energy away, sent it flying across the kitchen to knock Clinton on his ass. Now the toll was being paid.
With two lurching steps towards my bed I collapsed on the still unmade sheets and was asleep in seconds.