importance, Astor.
“Do you understand?
“The Dark Order must never get their hands on the artifact.”
Astor nodded. Swallowed again.
“Do you have any Questions?” The Head’s voice ended in an echo.
Astor shuffled the scrolls to the front of the big book.
“It’s just this, your Wiseness … these children here …” He rolled the scrolls open.
“What of them?”
Echo.
Silence.
“ … ”
“ … ”
“… Well—It’s just … this girl—”
“—Race Williams,” the Head finished for him. “Thirteen years old. Athletic. Exuberant. An American … She’s already graduated the Academy. A few years early, you understand.”
“But—”
“But what, Astor? The girl is an exceptional healer, not just for the youths. But within the entire Order itself. Her budding skills along with her unknown identity are vital to this mission. We know you see that. Further, all of the other healers are currently—occupied. And this transportation can wait no longer. Would you rather be without a healer, Astor?”
Echo.
Silence.
Astor looked at the scroll in his lap, which had information on the girl.
“And what about the boy?” he finally said flatly. “He’s only ten years old.”
“Ah, yes—Chick Velazquez, of Spain. Surely you know his case …”
“Thin-Air Alchemy,” Astor muttered, almost as if to himself.
“Correct,” the Head informed. “The ancient art of forming objects simply out of thin air… Using the natural elements floating around us all the time … The molecules of existence … The ingredients of the Universe. The ingredients of life. Taking no energy from the user at all. Purely the alchemy of the balance of the energy of everything that surrounds us constantly. That which is there as a simple bi-product. An in-tuneness with all that surrounds us on a constant basis. An art that has been gone for thousands of years … thought mystical nonsense for many … An art that cannot be taught… Cannot be learned… A unique natural unity that one is either born with—or—
“And here we have witnessed him use it … Several times.
“Of course, there have been flukes in the past, quite a bit, in fact; occasional bursts of this magical brilliance, only for nothing to ever come of it. Buds that die before the flower can begin to flourish. Perhaps a disease of the plant …
“Consider this a field test, Astor. The boy must either sink or swim. He is either the one or not. There is no more time or him….
“You see, Astor, things are uneasy right now. Tides are changing. The wizards and warlocks of yesterday grow old. The Order is growing weaker, its most powerful minds dying off, not getting replaced … This is the best possible team right now. No matter your dated morality. There is no more time to wait for their powers to come to fruition. They must be thrown into the thick of it—now—before there is no longer a High Order for them to protect.
“Do you see?
“The time is now.
“A new dawn is approaching.”
More silence.
As still as a grave on the half-moon dusk.
“Do you question the decisions of the High Order, Astor?”
The Head’s voice was cold. Sterile.
Astor didn’t like it. Not one bit. Not with magic users this young and inexperienced. And opponents this dangerous. It wasn’t right. This was extortion. Something was wrong. The Counsel would never subject children this young to something like this. Ever.
The whole thing was stink-rotten.
The white-bearded wizard’s brows were tight and knitted together, his head down. Beads of sweat slid down the sides of his face, into his beard, as the spotlight burned on him.
He said nothing more. His conscience was too heavy now.
“Very good,” said The Head. “They will be placed under your tutelage for some before the mission is to commence. You are dismissed.”
The Head’s voice ended in a ringing echo....
Astor’s reflection came back to him in the train window.
Then the rolling green hills returned, the swaying trees, and the narrow stone walls, all broken now, from when the farmers and sheepherders still occupied the land.
Astor looked wearily over at the two children beside him. They had no idea the sort of danger they were in.
Just then the waiter returned with the three waters.
“Your waters,” as the three folded down the trays from the backs of the seats in front of them and the waiter set them down.
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“Gracias.”
The waiter bowed himself off. Astor put his glass to his mouth with a shaking hand. His tongue was stone dry.
Then Race dropped hers completely.
“Gasp!”
Chick jumped with what sounded like a hiccup and his own little sort of cry.
Astor almost spit out his water.
“What? What, child, what is it?”
“That— That man over there …” Race was leaned back in her seat, up against Chick, pointing with a half-bent finger.
Astor pushed the girl’s hand down and leaned over, spotting the big meat-faced, broad-shouldered goon. His face was deep-lined and scarred. Rough. Cut like rock. His cold deep-set eyes were sunken in and red-rimmed, the lids half closed, but Astor could be sure they were looking right back at him. That much was obvious. Also the bulge under his brown leather vest. That was obvious, too.
“What …” Astor whispered. “What about him?”
Race spoke out of the side of her mouth, turning into Chick, who sat stiff and wide-eyed.
“I ran into that man at the train station … or rather, another man … who was different … but there were two of that man there … another that looked just like him … a twin maybe … but the other man, the man who was different, he … he bumped into me … it was by accident, I think … he … he looked blind … but …”
Astor grumbled under his breath. He eyed the thick mug. There could be no mistake now; he was looking right at them, staring intently. Did he know? Was he here for the artifact? Had they met a block already? So soon? And who was this other man Race spoke of?
“And what happened?” Astor asked, in a voice that was more a thought than a spoken question. A pellet of sweat rolled down his dome-shaped forehead, his beard conveniently covering his mouth.
“Nothing …” Race whispered. “I was knocked back and I dropped my puffs … he was nice enough, but he gave me a strange feeling … something about him … he touched my face and told me to be more careful … and then walked off … that man and another were escorting him … they were taking him away from the train as it was leaving …”
Astor looked back at the thug and he was perfectly like a statue, glaring them down. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.
Astor squeezed the thing in the bag at his side and said:
“Come on, we’re moving into another car.”
With little complaint the boy and girl lifted their trays and shelved their waters, and the party slid out of the seats and over to the door into the next car to the rear.
As he held the door open, and just as the kids had passed under him, Astor peeked back over his shoulder at the ape just sitting there.
He was just sitting there.
But he was watching them alright.
In the next car the party moved on; Chick in front, Race in the middle, Astor pulling up the rear, shooing them to hastily move along up the next car.
They passed businessmen in private booths with martinis around them, average women folk, and all other sorts of common population.
They moved along single file into the next car, which was a lounge car. Along the left side were circular booths with large tables for eating, separated into two sections by the boarding doors. Along the right we
re small round tables with chairs for reading or quick work. No doors on that side.
The party filed down the wide aisle.
Astor peeked back over his shoulder to see if they were being followed by the gorilla. They weren’t.
The party slipped through the car and into the next, which was exactly like it. Neither of the lounge cars was overly crowded.
They were moving through this car then, and were about step through the door into the next, when another hulking bruiser—the twin of the man in the first car—came in through the door, blocking them.
The man’s face was even more mangled, rough and scarred than his brother’s, and his mass took up the entire doorway as he squeezed through it. He wore a grey jacket, into which he was already reaching one oversized pug’s paw.
Chick Velazquez stumbled back into Race, Race into Astor, at the sight of the enormous man coming at them. Instantly, Astor drew the children behind him, ordering:
“Get back!”
The two kids swung around the rear of him, clutching close. Astor had one hand on the satchel, the other around the children. He began back-stepping slowly, pushing the children back even more, eying the mammoth in front of him. The guy had a face like broken stone. No flesh. Rock.
As Astor backed away, shielding the kids and the satchel—everything that was sacred to him at that moment—he turned for a second, on instinct, toward the front of the car.
The twin goon, the one in the vest, was shoving through the opposite doorway. A chunky, rough hand was disappearing into the brown article of clothing around him.
‘Trapped! Well this is it!’ Perspiration rolled down Astor’s whitened temples.
He backed himself and the kids all the way to the center of the car, their backs against the wall on the right side, next to the little reading tables.
Astor’s wild gaze shot back and forth between the two closing thugs. Race Williams and Chick Velazquez were on either side of him, partially behind, squeezed in between him and the wall.
‘These damn kids! If only the Order hadn’t sent these damn kids!’
The passengers in the car had all started to take notice now, but none said anything. All were quiet to save their own skin, as they nervously watched the scene unfold in front of them, hoping to not even be involved.
The pugs had their gats out now. Square black things. Automatics. Looking like toys in their meaty hands. They were pointed at the party from opposite directions.
The big beasts inched forward, their mouths closed like they didn’t even know how to speak. Like their mouths never even moved.
Astor was assessing his best move, calculating—when all of a sudden one of the patrons in the booth turned around—
“Well then! We’re all here!”
The man jumped up from the booth, landing in the aisle directly opposite Astor and the two kids.
Race gasped.
“It’s him!!” she cried. “That was the man from before! The one I bumped into!”
“Yes!” the man said. “It’s me!!” The black-clad, pale faced man brushed his trench coat back with one black-gloved hand, and bowed as if he’d just finished a performance. Then he stood erect.
He was easily over six feet tall, but thin. Terribly thin. His long black trench coat brushed the floor.
The jagged, sharp smile he wore was from ear to ear, under the glint of his little round opaque sunglasses. His black oversize hat cast a deep shadow over his pasty face, making the skin almost grey. Pallid, like in death. The man was like an unholy statue of evil.
The goons had stopped advancing forward, their guns balanced in their mittens. They watched and waited on the man in black.
Astor braced his stance even more; his one arm in front of Race, the other hand on the satchel, his bent elbow in front of Chick.
“That is the man you spoke of earlier?” Astor asked Race quietly.
“Yes … it’s him …” Fear was on Race’s breath as she muttered the words.
“Only nice things, I hope,” the man grinned.
Astor’s eyes shot from the tall man in black to both of the goons. They stood motionless, halfway the distance from the doors of the car to where the party now huddled. Their black gats were poised and pointed. Deadly little things.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the tall man in black began. “My name is Nico. And these are my friends.” He nodded his head sideways, to the men at either side of the car who seemed to be made of brick.
The faces on the innocent passengers in the car were wide-eyed and white with apprehension. Many were cowering in their booths, sinking down. All were quiet.
“Now, if we do this right, no one will get hurt,” the man in black said. “No one at all. Then we may all go back to our drinks, our lunches, our conversations or what have you, and patiently wait for the train to roll to its destination.”
He took a step toward the group carrying the artifact.
“All I need it what’s in that satchel, old man.” And he thrust a long black-clad finger at the brown bag across the old man’s chest.
Astor stepped back slightly, the children holding onto him tightly. His own fingers dug deep into the soft brown leather of the old bag. He could feel the hard artifact that was inside. He knew he must never let this thing fall into the wrong hands, for if it did, it would mean.…
His brow was shiny, glistening with sweat. His eyes wide. His heart fast.
“Well,” said the man named Nico. “Have at it old man. Are you going do the right thing? Or are we going to have a fight after all?”
Astor’s eyes shot like bullets around the room: from the tall black statue across the aisle; to the gorillas on either side of the car, blocking the doors; through all the wide-eyed patrons lining the opposite wall; and finally back to the man in black in front of him.
“Don’t move until I say so,” Astor whispered to the kids, his eyes still darting, his mind racing.
“Heard that,” said Nico. “Don’t’cha just hate rules, kids?”
The tall man in black chuckled. Then he took another step forward. His hand was extended out even further, the black leather glove shining in the overhead train lights.
“Give it to me,” he said.
“I’m warning you,” Astor said firmly, “one more step and—”
“And what, old man? What’re you going to do?”
The bashers on either side began closing in again, the black gats rising. Astor was sweating, nervous. It had been so long since actual combat like this. Too many scotches had softened him. Too many hours relaxing in his garden!
Nico took another step forward.
Astor finally made his move.
He crossed his elderly arms over his body, his hands claw-like and extended out—the two younglings clutching behind him. From his palms he let fly two small bolts of lightning, in opposite directions.
CRRRRRRRRRRRRACK! ZAAP! ZWIK!
The goon at the back of the car was scorched completely, charred to a crisp. He crumbled to the floor in a thick black dust.
The other, in the vest, had his gun arm burnt clean off, from the elbow down, the gun red-hot and smoking on the floor next to him. He was writhing on the floor, like a baby now, in agonizing pain and shock next to it.
Then Astor twisted and turned and let another three bolts fly at the menacing figure in front of him.
The tall black anti-saint called Nico sidestepped the first, rolled out of the way of the second, and bounced up and caught the third bolt in his bare hand. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the black leather glove. Purposely.
The blue, crackling bolt of electricity slowly shrunk and morphed, into a spinning ball of light in his bare hand. Then the spinning slowed and the blue ball started to take shape.
It changed rapidly, transmogrifying——
Nico took a bite of the green apple he now held.
“Thanks,” he said, munching the juicy, crunchy thing. Then he tossed it away.
A
stor’s eyes doubled in their size. He took a staggering step back, pressing the kids—who were pulling at his coat in terrible fright—against the window-lined wall behind him.
“That’s right, old man. Anything I touch with these bare fingers becomes a food. I am what you call a Toucher. Isn’t that great? I wonder what you will turn into when I touch you? But more importantly, you washed up old wizard, now look at what you’ve gone and done! I didn’t figure you the type to burn innocents just to save your own tail!”
As Nico stepped away, he revealed a young mother, pressed back in the booth she sat at in terror and agony—clutching her crying baby in her arms. Two small fires had started where the stray bolts blasted the wood, one on the table in front of her, the other to her side, wedging the woman against a corner partition and the fire.
The woman’s face was a twisted mask of agonizing terror. “MY BABY! MY BABY!” was all she kept screaming, shrinking away and shielding the little crying thing from the reaching heated flames.
Nico turned his head and smiled as he watched.
Astor jumped in shock. He quickly thrust two open palms forward. Blasts of water shot out, extinguishing the flames around the woman.
Smoke rose from the sizzling charred spots. The woman was in tears, her baby still screaming its little head off as she hunched over it.
Nico laughed. “What a hero!”
Astor stumbled then, coughed once. The children on either side of him had to hold onto him to keep him upright, for they felt him start to go down.
“Are you alright?” Race whimpered softly, her eyes large and troubled.
Astor was hunched slightly, leaning on the girl for support. He nodded and wiped his chin.
Then he switched and rested his hand on one of the small reading tables next to them. He coughed again. A thin line of blood escaped his closed mouth and ran down his white-bristled chin. He wiped it quickly away, but there was no mistaking it. His other hand was against the satchel.
Nico watched all this calmly, with a jagged ear-to-ear smile that somehow just kept expanding.
‘No good,’ thought Astor. ‘No good at all … I’m growing weak … and I can’t even use magic on this train … not with all these innocents around.’
He glared back at the pale wicked oval sneering at him.
‘That bastard! He knew exactly what he was doing, attacking us in a tight, crowded place like this … There’s no way I can defeat him without endangering the lives of others!’
Astor glanced then at the frightened, tight faces of the patrons in the car. They were sick with fear and shock, frozen like marionettes, their mouths slightly open but no sounds coming out.
‘There’s only one way!’ Astor said to himself. And he uttered a spell in his head.
A curved sheen of light—like a dome—passed over the old man, Race and the boy. The clear-ish half-circle covered them completely; running into the wall behind them, the floor below them. Protecting them fully within the confines of the train.
Race held onto Astor, her blonde curls pressing against his arm. Chick was at the old wizard’s opposite side.
Nico was still in the middle across from them. Still staring. Still smiling.
The clear dome that was the forcefield protected them from all angles. There was no available point of attack. They were enclosed in their own little magic bubble, impregnable by force or weapon, resistant to all forms of magic. One of Astor’s highest, if not the highest, spell of his.
Always knew when to use it,